Last Rights (2023)
I recently became a Manager for a house where folks with 24 hour care needs can live in the community.
We are a pretty tight crew, 13 staff and 5 persons in care.
Our primary focus is on Quality of Life, citing basically the QoL guidelines with person based advocacy as the mission.
I love my work.
It has helped me, to separate “what I do” on the daily with “what I do” as a career. Somehow the focus changes, and I’m able to take better care of myself, while caring for others. It provides boundaries and scripts, and a sense of learning to know what to do in those bizarre situations that arise, when you care for others.
Now and then,
The line gets a little blurry. The boundary gets a little muddied-
But I’ve been blessed with opportunities for growth, and my rebound has gained speed with practise.
Recently, a gentleman, who has been in my life for a scooch over two years, experienced round after round of decline.
It was rough standing by and feeling helpless to stop the inevitable train ride to “no more time” station. As part of his care team, I grappled with the despair, denial and hope.
Hope was always the toughest for me-
Hope meant a shattering of heart in the end.
It always does.
The guy, let’s call him Moog... because Moog is his goofy-grin-mug when he just finished some shenanigan or other, with a donkey-sounding giggle-hee-haw. Big old grin on his Moog.
Was a trouper beyond troupers. Bouncing back from lung stuff and surgeries. Yet each time the bounce got a little lower,
The times between a little shorter.
Hope squeezing out with a “wheeeee” like the top of a balloon being pinched to let it out slowly.
It drove me wild watching him in hospital. The scream trapped in my chest was
“Please, for the love of god, don’t go alone in a strange world, tied to a bed”
Just the thought sent ripples of horror through my stomach and made we feel weak.
I can’t let that happen.
WE can’t let that happen.
He deserves better.
There was very much a honeymoon of a summer. Besides some bowel stuff- super sleepy days- weekend coughs...
I pretty much forgot the grief, relaxed into enjoying the time.
He’s a super entertaining sort, that keeps you on your toes.
Boy those toes!
Watching them tap to some Bluegrass blasting on YouTube.
I thought, for a moment, how silly I had been. He’s fine!
We got time!
As the seasons changed,
So did he.
The next part was rapid fire-
In and out of hospital,
Like trailing down into wonderland, without the shrinking part.
I avoided going in the last couple times-
Quick - in and out.
I could not handle to see him tied down or witness the chaffing and bruises from when he was.
It made me feel guilty-
Like I was a part of something I was helpless to stop-
He HAD to... because he was still strong enough to pull out the IV’s and still too wiggly to not fall out of bed.
I’m sorry Moog.
A decision was finally made-
I know it was tough tough tough on everyone. A salty pill to swallow.
No more trips to the hospital unless it was an immediate emergency. Comfort measures only.
There is both an elation and a sinking- at the same time.
I think that’s what held me steady,
Above all else.
He would not have to die alone, tied down, in a strange place.
But he would surely die.
With hope, we planned for a month or more down the road.
The following day, it changed to maybe a week or two- maybe one more trip to the hospital- maybe a rebound in a day or two....
Within 24 hours it was-
Definitely Hospice.
Definitely Today.
Get on that.
Ironically...or not...
The day this unfolded, I was supposed to be in all-day manager training- along with my number two. Worse yet, my number 1- my boss and trusted confidant- was also at that meeting.... an hour away. (We were on Zoom)
I was....blown away.
Cherry on top:
My poor trusted floor staff were frozen in a state of shock and grief.
He was FINE on Tuesday.
And he was- he went off to the dump, got a big long van ride and chowed down on cookies- to the tune of needing a shower!!!
I watched them helplessly as they froze and they flighted- one each. Trauma responses- both.
The most brilliant irony of all was when the meeting was chatting about person-centred care. My brain trying to focus on what they were saying, with my conscience screaming that this “sitting here” listening was the farthest thing from person-centred at this moment.
I nudged my number 2 and said “let’s move him to the living room. I can’t concentrate with him all alone in his room like that”
She nodded and we scurried away-
Got him cleaned up and settled in the living room, where we could hear him and the meeting at the same time.
Not sure what we missed in that intermission- but it was worth the peace of mind.
By that evening he was transferred to Hospice.
The wind started to come out of me when I saw my boss, back from Kelowna. I breathed a little steadier.
One of the nurses working was someone I knew from way back. I was relieved she was there too, I gave her a massive, drawn out hug and went to check on the staff and do some paperwork.
I slept like a baby.
The next morning I bounded out of bed with the energy of “a good day” in me.
When I got there, he was bright eyes- grabbing for a hug and squeezing tight.
Wiggling around in the bed.
He would go-go-go and then drift off- reaching towards my hand or face.
I busied myself giving a couple updates, chatting lightly with the nurse about stuff she already knew (my boss had told her the night before) and washing him up here and there.
I noticed he was wet.
He has this thing about bending the hose sideways and missing the pad.
I teased him and he laughed, wiggling this way and that.
Then, as I was finishing up his pad change,
I noticed he had somehow missed the soaker pad as well- and I made the bed with fresh linens-
The best I could with what was in the cupboards and bathroom.
I realized there wasn’t any gowns (like I’m used to in hospital) and Mr. Moog was naked as a Jay Bird.
Well, I wrapped him in a blanket...
But still.
That’s no way to impress the ladies!
It was right around this time I had also noticed he was pushing on his eyes and small tears were forming.
Often this is his first signs of pain.
The guy has a few signals- but this was one of the most consistent.
I rang for the nurse,
But by the time I was organized to run and grab him some clothes- no one had come.
So off I trotted down the hall to find someone.
When I returned to the room-
Two woman met me. I must have passed them in the hall, but I didn’t recall.
We may have said “who are you” or some variation of that unanimously.
I was almost immediately pelted with questions about his cross.
His cross?
Yes, his cross.
From his mom?
Yes that cross.
It’s in his room shrug
It should be here!
Here?
With him.
With him? Why??
Because he’s catholic.
He is?
Yes! Didn’t you read his history?
Well yea- but I thought that was history. He’s been going to the Salvation Army as long as I’ve known him.....
But his mother was Catholic. He was baptized Catholic.....
Mmmmmmmokay. Cool
(I didn’t know that was a life-time membership deal)
So any-hoodles
As you can see, he’s naked at the moment, and in pain. So the nurse is going to come take care of his pain while I go get him clothes- mkay?
I’ll grab the cross while I’m there.
Cool? Cool.
I doubt I was even out of the building before I was on the phone with my boss.
I have no idea how she puts up with me.
I’m freaking.
Who are these people? Where did they come from?
And what’s the deal with the cross?
Is that legit?
I kinda figured he was a fan of Buddy Jesus over Cross Jesus...
but who knew?
And no judgement man.
To each their own, and I’m completely open to supporting whatever- whenever...
But my brain was literally doing cartwheels.
If this guy has been Catholic,
Like this whole time....
Why wasn’t he ever going to mass?
Shouldn’t that have mattered in life, more than here and now at the end?
I chewed that cud all day.
I googled a couple things.
Later on,
I went back in.
I walked in the room and saw his shoulder shaking, but his head was turned slightly towards the wall and towards the tv.
At a quick glance I thought he was laughing,
I made a joke about watching tv while I took off my jacket.
The sound of fluttering caught my attention and I zoomed to the side of his bed, calling his name (the real one)
He was in a full-blown seizure.
I immediately hit the call bell, within seconds the bed alarm was going off too.
I curled his face towards me and held his hand, telling him he was okay, he was not alone, people were coming to see him.
They slipped in and watched us,
Frantically calling on their speaky-thing for his anti-seizure med.
I guess the meds had been ordered, but not yet processed. I’m pretty sure I heard one nurse say to the other that they had just showed up (the orders)
They gave him a mild sedative,
But that wasn’t before the seizure stopped.
His stiffened limbs slowly relaxed, I rubbed them out and rearranged the pillows around him to support his strained neck muscles.
I put on some of his favourite songs.
Rubbed his head.
Lotioned up his arms and legs.
I noticed he still had pee-blanket. The one I had wrapped him in while I whipped out to get his shirts.
Gross.
Washed him up and redid his bedding-
Still thinking about his cross.
Some visitors came in.
One, the other lady from the morning.
I’m not sure where the courage came, but I blurted out the question that was on my mind...
Should I call a priest or something?
Like...is that the right thing to do?
The google says that Catholics need last rights.
Does he?
She didn’t directly answer me.
I hope I didn’t embarrass her, or speak out of turn.
I have a bad habit of not knowing the best things to say at the best times.
It’s a character flaw.
Any way-
She said she thought that if his mother was around- she would.
Well...
That’s that.
I went and asked if the hospice had a resident priest.
They don’t.
So I googled it.
Called the number.
Spoke to a Father that asked a couple questions and said he’d be there in a half hour.
It took me about five minutes to decide that Moog was not gonna do that alone.
I doubt his mother would dig that.
So I let my boss know,
Let the staff know,
And headed back in.
I had no idea what to expect,
Visions of a Catholic funeral I had attended years ago fluttered through my head,
So I busied myself making him as “church ready” as I could.
Washed and combed out his hair.
Straightened his shirt and then tucked the blankets up all “hallowed” the best I could.
We listened to some gospel-country hybrid tunes, and I promised not to bolt, even if it got all emotional and whatnot.
The priest came in, and patiently waited while I fiddled with trying to get the staff on FaceTime. We settled on audio, and he did his thing.
I heard one of the staff over the speaker say “amen” when the priest said “amen”. One of those- repeat after me things. So I joined the “amens”. All I’m gonna say on that, is there are a lot of amens.
It wasn’t nearly as long as I imagined it might be.
He was so sweet, doing the cross thing. Moog rolled to his side, and he seemed at peace.
It felt wholesome-
Like, not my thing, but a good thing to do-
For him.
That was the first Last Rights I have ever witnessed.
I don’t know if it will be my last.
But it felt like the right thing to do.
No turmoil of the good and the bad at the same time...
Rather just relief.
I did something, solely for him, for the benefit of him. A gift that his mother would have chosen.
As I write this,
He isn’t quite gone yet.
I have no idea if he will wake for a bit, or slip away.
But I feel a clean, sort of guilt free grief.
A grief with relief.
I was allowed to do one thing for him that was purely free of any question.
So, if I get to see him tomorrow, it will be with joy.
If I don’t, it will be with pure loss.
Messy endings are the worst,
I wish him the best.
He deserved the best.