52. 1-800-Call-A-Priest and Prepare for Hallucinations
Donna came to visit! The reason you haven’t heard much about my bestie lately is because I haven’t seen her since early December. Think back. Remember now? The last time I mentioned Donna Eaton visiting me was when she dragged a priest to Wildwood for a little tête-à-tête. The guy who hung out with us that day wore a clerical collar, but that did nothing to cloak Father Dude’s relaxed vibe, conspicuously on display with a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I can’t say for certain, but in my mind’s eye, that’s what he was wearing.
As you may recall, I decided on the spot that ‘he’s the one that I want, ooo, ooo, ooo, honey, the one that I want’ to pave my way toward the Pearly Gates. BTW, that little ditty flew through my head courtesy of Miss Olivia Newton John. Thank you very much — and now I’d appreciate her jumping off the loop inside my head. Thank you very much.
And, hello Phil McTigue.
Please feel free to exclude that song from any future CDs.
Seriously. I don’t need the Grease tune.
I’m suffering enough — don’t ya think?
So, it’s kinda early in the blog for a sidestep, but before we get to the point of this ramble — and to be perfectly honest I don’t know what the point is yet — so it’s a fine time for us to take a little detour. When this blog grows up and is ready for Guru’s posting, I will title it. At the moment, it is numbered 52, but before long it will have some weird title — ooo, the suspense is killing me. Given it’s a little after 3 AM, and I’m having enough breakthrough pain in my right thigh and shin to keep me from sleeping — we’re going places in my head — undetermined places — isn’t that just wonderful?
I had a hospice visit earlier today — technically it was yesterday given the hour and all. I pronounced myself Stable Mabel while my nurse did her decontamination process by wiping everything within arm’s reach with an array of antibacterial, antifungal, anticootie cloths. In this day and age of the Greek alphabet of Covid, I am thrilled with her dousing techniques — although I’d appreciate the cessation of an aerosol blast of Lysol my way — just sayin.
Anyway, my vitals were awesome. All systems were go — if you know what I mean. My heart did the appropriate number of rat-a-tat-tats, and my lungs expanded on inhale and deflated on exhale, and sounded great. And while my legs are freakishly swollen — think tree trunk in appearance — from my thighs to my ankles — there was only moderate pain when Nurse M did her touching and poking here and there — each touch with a preemptive apology.
During the question and answer round of our time together, my answer was, “No,” to any breakthrough pain since her previous visit. And, “No,” to any current pain. I threw in a joke that I’m feeling so good I’ve begun wondering if I even have cancer. Then raised the possibility that I’m part of some wacky experiment.
“Hey, let’s get some 64 year old dumbass, tell her she’s terminal, scare the crap out of her so she doesn’t move a damned muscle, lash her to a leather chair, and see what happens.”
If not for the pain I’m currently in I could believe that scenario.
And I wouldn’t be the slightest bit pissed, BTW.
Back to the sidestep. I really don’t plan on what I’m going to write about. I make lists from time to time that contain things of note: like the envelope my mom gave me — the one that had letters from her grampy — I knew at some point I’d make reference to it, but the when and why was a surprise to me. It’s very lovely how things make their way into one of my blogs.
Having said that, there is a blog that’s been banging in my head for months. It is not going to be a nice blog. It is going to have a whole lot of anger associated with it.
I’ll give you a hint. When an oncologist walks into a room, introduces herself to a woman who’s sitting on an exam table wearing nothing but a hospital johnny, and tells the nervous woman she has terminal cancer and there is nothing that can be done to stop or reverse course — the conversation, in my humble opinion, should turn to an expression of sympathy and the assurance that pain management has jumped to the forefront of medical care being considered. Again, in my humble opinion, there shouldn’t be a full-frontal, scare tactic assault and emotional shakedown of the nearly naked woman.
That is what I believe happened to me.
My shakedown started with the next words spoken that day, “And you are going to die an excruciatingly painful death.” Those words paved the way for me to make decisions, unmake decisions, and regret the eff out of the ultimate decisions I made.
That blog isn’t this blog. But, it is sooooo coming!
And be forewarned. I am carrying A LOT of emotional baggage about what happened back in November/December.
I will be writing about it. I have to write about it. I’m just not there yet.
So, getting back to this blog — the one that isn’t pissing me off. One of the things I recently noted during a dark winter night are the differences in what people bring or send or create for the hospice patient. There have been many deliveries — breads, soups, puddings and lasagnas. They were delivered by hand, then gobbled up around bouts of nausea. And there were deliveries that hang on my walls now and bring me lots of enjoyment. And there were deliveries of music — some of which I’ll be listening to on date night.
You’ve heard about those wonderful arrivals, but there were two others of note that I have been remiss in mentioning. They’ve made the lists — but I never read my lists. Tonight, I remembered them on my own.
During the holiday season, I received two lovely and tasty Edible Arrangements from Eileen McTigue McDonald — yeup there’s another McTigue! The gift-boxed arrangements had an assortment of goodies, but the hand dipped strawberries most definitely deserve a shoutout. The exquisitely shaped and ripened to perfection strawberries were the size of a small child’s hand and beyond delicious.
The second lovely and tasty treat was a beautiful assortment of candied and carameled apple sections from one of Tim’s coworkers. (The Warden probably did a facepalm because carameled is not a word. It is now! Teehee). Anyway, the apple slices were dipped in yumminess and had lots of crunchies and munchies sprinkled across the top. And they were to die for — appropriate, all things considering.
When it comes to deliveries, however, my bestie doesn’t fool around. She doesn’t deliver food — she delivers human beings, and the one she brought me was of the ordained variety.
I choose besties rather well — don’t ya think?
Now, getting back to the reason Donna hasn’t visited since the ‘Presenting of the Priest’ — she had extensive surgery done on her foot – her heel – her tendon – her ankle. I don’t know exactly what part of her pod was worked on because I can’t stand hearing about injuries and surgeries which is absurd on the face of things because I’m telling all of you about my medical crap.
You should note: if I was reading this blog, I’d skip the medical stuff — and I would sooooo skip the stuff about tomb-like scanning devices and stick to the stuff that doesn’t skeeve me out. Again, just sayin.
In any event, the surgery Donna had on her foot rendered her immobile for weeks. So, while I’ve been lashed to the leather in Worcester, Donna has been sitting her ass on a sofa or in a wheelchair in Oxford waiting for her heel to heal. (Between you, me and the lamppost, I’ve done a lot less bellyaching about the 24/7 sitting thing than Donna has done — but, whatevs).
Three weeks ago, her cast came off and a big-ass boot contraption went on. After a week or so of time-measured-ambulating — five minutes here — five minutes there — Donna got the go-ahead for some upright, weight-bearing roaming privileges.
She roamed to 183 Wildwood Avenue.
The former medical professional came prepared for a visit with the hospice patient. She was double-masked, offered proof of a negative rapid Covid test, and I think she held her breath as she hobbled across the room and plunked onto my sofa. We stared at one another for many seconds, then said the same thing at the same time.
“You look really good.” ——— “I’m feeling really good.” ——— “Good. That’s good.”
Once that banal crap was over, we were off and running. Blogs. Priests. Eulogies. Kids. Grandkids. Husbands. Weather. Pain killers. Old Orchard. Hospice.
My mother.
Donna always asks about my mother, then says something sympathetic through a trail of caught emotion.
When we were nearing the end of our time together, I brought up the Priestly One. “I need to call him.”
Silence.
“I should sort of tell him what kind of thing I’m having and find out if he still wants to advocate my getting into Heaven.”
Silence.
“I’m guessing he’s gonna want to say something at the gathering — you know, to sort of commiserate with my peeps about my departure and prepare the Big Guy for my arrival.”
She laughed. “Give him a call. He’ll come by.”
“I called once and planned a get together, but I needed to cancel. Can’t remember why — snow maybe.” I shrugged then said what was really on my mind. “I’m sort of trying to stay on the downlow. You know, out of sight—out of mind. Kinda hard hiding out from God if I invite a holy dude into my home. I imagine the Big Guy has some sort of GPS — GodPriestSatellite capability, so I intend on staying off radar. Actually, I think the prolonged sitting is working — there’s no attention calling being done by Sheryll O’Brien, and as long as Mr. Wonderful dusts me once a week, it’s all good.”
“If you don’t want a visit, just give Father Dude a call.”
“Huh. 1-800-Call-A-Priest. Never thought of that.”
That is why God gave us best friends.
When one is daft from skull cancer — the other has her finger to the pulse of the problem.
I’m going to place the call soon. I need to discuss a fear that’s digging deep in my bones during the long, lonely nights — huh, digging deep in my bones — might be the source of the breakthrough pain in my legs. Psychosomatic? Nope, the pain is from the cancer-eating-rodent.
Anyway, I’ve been brought to the brink of discussing my fears on three different occasions, with three different people. I’m not going to name them because each person shared a personal end-of-life story about a loved one that included bits and pieces about hallucinations.
Full disclosure.
Having hallucinations is the part of the death experience that has rendered me scared shitless.
I haven’t had the guts to spell it out, but the people with whom I’ve skirted the issue were astute enough to pick up on my fears. The heebie-jeebie shivers and upper lip sweat probably tipped them off well enough.
So, here it is folks — the point of this blog.
I am terrified about what’s next.
I can put those words in a blog.
But, I haven’t had the guts to say them out loud.
I am terrified about what’s next.
I recently wrote a book for the hospice patient and their loved ones. Be, still — is similarly fashioned to Be — the book I wrote for Hadley. The headings are identical — the content is very different. I wrote this book because I’ve learned an awful lot about myself while in the care of hospice and I learned a whole lot about hospice itself. And though I know what it is to me, I haven’t a clue what it is for anyone else.
When I was told my life expectancy was probably six months, I pulled the immediate threads and found there were things I needed and wanted to do right then — that day. Prepare my family members, get my things in order, keep myself from going insane.
Check. Check. Eh.
The other threads that needed pulling were personal to me. Keep my creative juices flowing. Write a blog. Write a book for Hadley. Write another book? Yeup. The last one just sort of found its way to me a couple of weekends ago. Be, still — was a labor of love for me. It’s only been through my end-of-life experience when I’ve put myself first. I am still a wife to Tim, and a mother to Hannah and Jessica, and a MammyGrams to Hadley, and a daughter to Shirley, and a sister to Don and Marjorie, and a friend to many — but the role I have for those people changed the second I learned my fate.
I no longer have the luxury of a bunch of tomorrows. I won’t be able to help my girls through their grief. I won’t be planning anymore annual vacations in Wells — hell, I won’t even be going on this year’s trip.
The focus of this time has become a bit myopic. I think about today and this minute because it’s just too fucking hard to think about all of the other days — the ones I am not going to have.
And when I started feeling guilty about not joining in on conversations, and plans, and hopes, and dreams — I had to find my way to a place of acceptance. I had to find me. The person who is going it alone and when I found her, I needed to give her permission to support and comfort herself — much as I have done my whole life for others.
During my hospice process, I realized I needed to Be kind to myself — and I needed to Be thoughtful of others — and I needed to Be strong.
I know I am strong.
I am handling this shit fest remarkably well if I do say so myself. Fortunately for me, countless people have said I am showing remarkable strength. People whose opinions I value — like my sister-in-law, Kathy. She often remarks about my strength.
Just hearing her say so helps keep me strong.
Truth be told, though, I’m scared, too. Scared shitless by the unknowns — like what will come with morphine?
Hallucinations — I fear.
I’m going to include two sections of Be, still. They are ones that I will be referring to time and time again.
Be Strong
You’ve learned you are terminal — perhaps you’ve battled valiantly against cancer — the surgeries, the radiation, the chemo — or perhaps you’ve struggled for years with breathing issues and now find drawing a simple breath is anything but simple. No matter what illness brought you to death’s door and brought you to the decision to enter hospice, you are here now. You may be weary and think you are without any reserve of strength. Dig deep. You might be surprised at how much strength you have left.
When you can. Be strong enough to make the decision to enter hospice.
And then...
Be strong enough to allow strangers into your home — and strong enough to be honest with them about everything.
Be strong enough to tell family members what you want by way of Do Not Resuscitate, or Do Not Intubate, or Do Not Transport to a Hospital.
Be strong enough to feel the pain that will become your constant companion.
Be strong enough to ask for help when the pain becomes unbearable — even if it means moving to the next level — morphine.
Be strong enough to face the long, lonely hours that come night after night. There is so much to learn when the world is still. You’ll have times of fear, but there will be times of comfort. You may want avoidance, but if you lean in, you may find acceptance. It is in the stillness when you will learn that grace helps shoulder all burdens.
And...
Be strong enough to ask for help, or a hug. No one should go through death alone, so when life really challenges you, and it will, reach out to the people who will comfort you, then lean in.
Please Be strong.
Be Fearless — Not Reckless
There are going to be times when you don’t want to turn the corner and follow a well-worn path toward death. That corner usually involves the decision to take morphine — even just a little — just enough to take the edge off of pain that just isn’t being handled through the normal course of things.
That is a very difficult corner to turn, but staying where you are will cause you and your loved ones emotional pain. They do not want to see you suffer. It’s really that simple for them, but taking that first dose of morphine is anything but simple for you.
And know...
You may want to tough it out — but there is a cost to digging in and tolerating too much pain. You may fear what is next if you take that first dose. The reality is this — you are dying. It is a painful process. Admitting you need a little something stronger is not a sign of weakness — it is a sign of acceptance.
Please Be Fearless — Not Reckless.
I hope that when the time comes for me to act upon the hardest of all these words I have the courage to do so. And I’m just going to throw this out there — in case He is still listening to my prayers.