Ever since my father moved into the nursing home, his health has been declining. Fairly rapidly, I think. We got a call last night to say he’d stopped breathing, so they called the ambulance and sent him to hospital. He’s had another heart attack and has pulmonary oedema. He’s alive, but with increasing signs of heart failure.
Yet again I’m forced to deal with the “is this it?” question (like I have here, and here, and here, and here). I *even* had to cancel my appointment with the Back Up Therapist last night, so I could go to the hospital (I wouldn’t have, except the hospital said I should, so foolishly I did).
I’m angry. I can’t help thinking they shouldn’t have done anything last night – just let him go. It was his time. How long is this going to go on? How long is he going to punish me, punish all of us with this on-again-off-again dance with life?
Could he just f***ing die already?
I guess at least we have a DNR order in place now – finally. I’ve been scouring the internet, desperate for information on his life expectancy, but nada. Zip. Nothing. Or more precisely, like almost anything medical, “it depends”. Sigh.
My mother and I have discussed the “arrangements” – such as they will be. Well, there won’t really be any. They’ll be private, and I’m not even sure I’ll go. Back Up Therapist is big on rituals – rituals, ceremonies, anything to mark important events. My ritual will be throwing away all his clothes, his smelly, yucky clothes, and all his other skanky possessions. I can’t wait.