(no subject)
This weekend was an emotional one at work. :-( We've had a husband/wife pair living at Clarebridge for a little bit over a year now. The husband, Edwin, had severe end-stage Parkinson's and accompanying dementia (not everybody with Parkinson's gets dementia, but some do). His wife, Lucy, did not have any dementia and chose to move to Clarebridge to be with him. Clarebridge is a memory care facility and she is the only resident living there with her complete mental faculties (no dementia/Alzheimer's).
Over the past year, we've all watched helplessly as Edwin steadily declined in functioning. Parkinson's robbed him of his ability to form clear words, walk, and respond to direction. Over the past couple of weeks it also robbed him of his ability to swallow making eating nearly impossible. On Friday night, he had difficulty breathing and Hospice was called in to sit by his bedside since we all knew the end was inevitable. Lucy stayed up all night at her husband's side Friday night. She didn't even leave the room for meals. I worked during the day on Saturday and stopped in periodically to check on the two of them, only able to offer a hug and prayers. The whole family made their way to say goodbye to their father/grandfather as he lay trembling in his darkened room. I kissed him goodbye on the forehead before leaving for home that night. It was the very last time that I saw him.
My shift ends at 3PM and I usually make my way home around 3:30PM or so but when I came in on Sunday morning I was told that Edwin passed away around 4:30AM. At 10:00PM, the Hospice nurse noticed that Lucy was unable to be awoken and after being examined by our staff 911 was called and she was sent out to the hospital. She currently resides in the ICU with a possible blockage in her heart (today she's receiving a catheterization). She waited by his side and was unable to be with him as he crossed that final threshold. To me, that is beyond tragic.
All day Sunday her and Edwin's children stopped by to bring things back to the hospital for Lucy. They looked as if they had all been hit by trucks. I can't imagine losing my father and having my mother hospitalized in the ICU on the same day. My heart broke for them. :-(
After I got off of work, I called Seth and we decided to go visit her in the ICU. We spent the majority of Sunday night talking with Lucy and her daughter. It was awkward fumbling around for words to bring them comfort, but I will never forget that night we spent in the ICU. There are so many times when I'm faced with the death of a resident that I've tenderly cared for but I've never grieved with a family like we did that night.
The only time I've been present during a death is when one of our residents passed away from colon cancer. He was on his deathbed with a Hospice nurse beside him and we were told to help him into a chair so that the mattress could be changed. Moving him caused a rapid decline in his condition. We moved him back to the bed and held his hand and stroked his hair and watched as his life slowly left him. We stood together hugging ourselves and crying for a good ten minutes. But then we had to pick our heads back up and get right back to work. We had 37 other people that needed bathing, cleaning, feeding, and dressing.
It is a difficult and strange thing to have to face death and keep moving. We are not allowed time to process the enormity of what we've witnessed and so death often becomes a surreal, emotionless event for us. There have been so many times that I've had to suppress emotion for the sake of the others I must take care of. I must separate my work life and my home life as a protective measure against burning out. In the field I work in, I know dozens of people that die every year. I can go to most rooms at Clarebridge and count four or five people that I knew that used to live in a single room. I remember testing their bath water to make sure it was warm, hugging them goodnight, and tenderly brushing away stray hairs from their face. I also remember the day they fell and never recovered, when they curled into a fetal position and never woke up, and the day their cancer diagnosis was given.
Sometimes, you want to be affected like the families are. And so, with the machines whirring around us on that cold, October night I allowed myself to feel pain in Edwin's passing. The four of us all reached out together in that terrible darkness and found strength. Tomorrow I will return to work. And I'll clean bottoms, test bath water, and feed residents when they lose the ability to feed themselves. And I'll meet a new resident when Edwin's room is refilled. Such is life as an RA at Clarebridge.
Over the past year, we've all watched helplessly as Edwin steadily declined in functioning. Parkinson's robbed him of his ability to form clear words, walk, and respond to direction. Over the past couple of weeks it also robbed him of his ability to swallow making eating nearly impossible. On Friday night, he had difficulty breathing and Hospice was called in to sit by his bedside since we all knew the end was inevitable. Lucy stayed up all night at her husband's side Friday night. She didn't even leave the room for meals. I worked during the day on Saturday and stopped in periodically to check on the two of them, only able to offer a hug and prayers. The whole family made their way to say goodbye to their father/grandfather as he lay trembling in his darkened room. I kissed him goodbye on the forehead before leaving for home that night. It was the very last time that I saw him.
My shift ends at 3PM and I usually make my way home around 3:30PM or so but when I came in on Sunday morning I was told that Edwin passed away around 4:30AM. At 10:00PM, the Hospice nurse noticed that Lucy was unable to be awoken and after being examined by our staff 911 was called and she was sent out to the hospital. She currently resides in the ICU with a possible blockage in her heart (today she's receiving a catheterization). She waited by his side and was unable to be with him as he crossed that final threshold. To me, that is beyond tragic.
All day Sunday her and Edwin's children stopped by to bring things back to the hospital for Lucy. They looked as if they had all been hit by trucks. I can't imagine losing my father and having my mother hospitalized in the ICU on the same day. My heart broke for them. :-(
After I got off of work, I called Seth and we decided to go visit her in the ICU. We spent the majority of Sunday night talking with Lucy and her daughter. It was awkward fumbling around for words to bring them comfort, but I will never forget that night we spent in the ICU. There are so many times when I'm faced with the death of a resident that I've tenderly cared for but I've never grieved with a family like we did that night.
The only time I've been present during a death is when one of our residents passed away from colon cancer. He was on his deathbed with a Hospice nurse beside him and we were told to help him into a chair so that the mattress could be changed. Moving him caused a rapid decline in his condition. We moved him back to the bed and held his hand and stroked his hair and watched as his life slowly left him. We stood together hugging ourselves and crying for a good ten minutes. But then we had to pick our heads back up and get right back to work. We had 37 other people that needed bathing, cleaning, feeding, and dressing.
It is a difficult and strange thing to have to face death and keep moving. We are not allowed time to process the enormity of what we've witnessed and so death often becomes a surreal, emotionless event for us. There have been so many times that I've had to suppress emotion for the sake of the others I must take care of. I must separate my work life and my home life as a protective measure against burning out. In the field I work in, I know dozens of people that die every year. I can go to most rooms at Clarebridge and count four or five people that I knew that used to live in a single room. I remember testing their bath water to make sure it was warm, hugging them goodnight, and tenderly brushing away stray hairs from their face. I also remember the day they fell and never recovered, when they curled into a fetal position and never woke up, and the day their cancer diagnosis was given.
Sometimes, you want to be affected like the families are. And so, with the machines whirring around us on that cold, October night I allowed myself to feel pain in Edwin's passing. The four of us all reached out together in that terrible darkness and found strength. Tomorrow I will return to work. And I'll clean bottoms, test bath water, and feed residents when they lose the ability to feed themselves. And I'll meet a new resident when Edwin's room is refilled. Such is life as an RA at Clarebridge.