Category Archives: God’s plans for us

The Helper

Posted on by

Hospice has delivered an endless supply of equipment for our use: a hospital bed, a continuously inflating mattress, a shower chair, a wheeled walker, a movement alarm, a bedside table, plastic bed liners called chucks, an automatic chair that raises people to a standing position, a bag of Depends and a magic-foam pad to sit on. We’ve met four nurses, one doctor, one social worker and one aide. And we have phone numbers to call for 24-hour access to these people or to request additional supplies.

Today we had an appointment with the aide, our helper, who was coming to give Nate a shower. She’d come once before, and I thought we were over the hump of Nate’s embarrassment with a woman other than me seeing him naked. But today when I said, “Guess who’s coming?” Nate answered, “I hope it’s not that woman who gave me the shower. I hope she never comes again.”

We all laughed, and I said, “Oh she’s coming all right, and I’m sure she’ll see to it that you cooperate!”

Lori is a powerful woman who doesn’t take guff from patients. She has a heart of gold and works hard all day bending and twisting to get dirty people clean, most of them struggling with body movement, unable to help her very much.

“She’s bathed people for 20 years,” I assured Nate, “and you’re just one of many she’s helping today.”

He winced and muttered, “Oh boy,” but then resigned himself to her arrival.

Bubbling with good cheer and strong respect for Nate, Lori chatted with him throughout his shower, covering him carefully at strategic moments to give him an illusion of privacy. She rubbed him dry with a towel, careful to keep an extra one over his shoulders so he wouldn’t get cold. It was a scene similar to hundreds in my past as a mother drying the bubble-bath-clean bodies of seven children.

Lori also dressed Nate, careful not to hurt him or touch the dime-sized tumors erupting here and there on his body. When he was dressed, she combed his hair, continuing to talk soothingly and deliver praise. She also helped him with his electric shaver.

After Nate’s bath, Lori showed me how to handle a new set of circumstances coming into our future as Nate’s caregivers: changing the messy diaper of a bed-ridden patient. This is work I never dreamed I would do. Even as she was explaining it, I was wishing it away. But she left us with a big bag of pull-up Depends, and this reality is right around the corner.

Preparing to leave, Lori looked at Nate. “OK, big guy, you’re a new man,” she said, standing back to admire her work. “And I’ll see you again on Friday.” He gave her a weak smile but was too worn out from the ordeal to be enthusiastic. Later he made a joke about her wanting to have her way with him, but we all heard a hint of appreciation in his voice.

I love Elisabeth Elliott’s quote: “Just do the next thing.” This is simple, wise counsel. Lori demonstrated this in her approach to Nate’s bath. One task at a time, she just did the next thing. It was hard work, and she was huffing and puffing as she lifted, supported, bent and squatted. But she made a point of steadily moving forward.

As Nelson reminded me tonight, “Don’t stress about that diaper thing today, because you don’t have to do it today. Wait til its right in front of you, and stress about it then.” That fits right in with Mrs. Elliott’s quote above. While you’re stressing out, just do the next thing.

My sister is fond of saying, “God doesn’t call the equipped; he equips the called.” She’s right. And God is in the process of equipping me, equipping all of us, to simply do the next thing.

“Commit your actions to the Lord, and your plans will succeed.” (Proverbs 16:3)

Medicine 101

Posted on by

Left brain, right brain, I never remember which side does what. One thing I do know, however, is that I’m not a numbers person. I’d rather write a 50 page paper than add a long column of figures, even if I had a calculator. That’s why keeping track of Nate’s pill bottles and medicine doses is almost more than I can handle. The 8½” X 11” grid Hospice gave me today to write everything down was intended to help but has only screamed, “You can’t!” from its place on the kitchen counter.

The Hospice doctor and the head nurse of our team spent 90 minutes with us today, examining Nate and talking over his current pains and frustrations. The doctor completed his part and was getting ready to leave when I asked him if it was true that marijuana was a legal pain med in Michigan. He answered, as most doctors do, with a detailed explanation. “There are three parts to the answer. The first is the law, and yes, it has become legal to use marijuana in medicating pain in Michigan. The second part is the training of doctors in the proper use of it, and that has widely occurred, too. The third part is the stickler. Who will be the provider?” Good question. Good answer.

The nurse volunteered to stay an extra half hour to tutor me on the meds. My slow responses to her drug-instructions must have triggered anxiety in her as she feared for her patient. She and I lined up all the containers, which included meds we used to use, meds we are currently using and meds we will use in the future. The minute she began referring to the drugs by their real names, I got lost.

Excusing myself to get a thin-tipped indelible marker I said, “You can tell me what and when, and I’ll translate it for myself on the label.”

She chuckled like I was kidding but bravely started in: “Ondansetron is for nausea,” she said, “and he can have up to three pills, 8 hours apart, over 24 hours.” I wrote on the container, “Nausea, 1 at a time, up to 3.”

She continued: “ABHR is a gel you rub on his wrists if the ondansetron isn’t working, and he can have it twice in 24 hours.” So I wrote “Break-through nausea, wrist, twice.”

We handled each vial, packet and tube, she reading the technicalities on the labels and me making them idiot-proof with my marker. I felt much better when we were done, especially after we’d labeled the four different kinds of morphine with their differences, none of which we are yet using. Just reading the word “morphine” on so many pill bottles made me shaky over the great unknown of Nate’s and my medical future together. Nevertheless, we completed our task.

My little pharmacy looks a lot like the leftovers shelf in our refrigerator because I have the meds grouped in Zip Loc Bags, but if there is any hope to keep it all straight, baggies are the answer. In addition to pills for pain, anxiety, sleeping, mood, constipation and swelling, we have a gel for bone pain and another for dry mouth. There are also special mouth washes, lip balms, skin creams and (gulp) suppositories.

As the nurse was leaving, she filled my cupped hands with a pile of bright green, rubber gloves. “You’ll need to wear these when you administer the gels,” she said, “or you’ll be medicating yourself when you apply them on Nate.” Some of those medications were starting to sound pretty good to me. She must have sensed that, because as she left, she gave me a strong hug, and it worked even better than the gels might have.

Tonight my sister Mary, a nurse, came over and pulled me out of my medical quicksand. Sitting on a kitchen stool, she recorded each drug name and its prescribed dose on the paper grid, using nurse-lingo like “M” for midnight and “N” for noon. Just watching her pen fly over the little squares was comforting. She completed the job accurately and thoroughly, relishing the whole process.

God’s tender loving care is in the details. Through the medical perplexities of this day, he made sure all my questions were answered, and he put my mind at ease (both brain sides). He also showed me (again) that if I have to walk through a maze, he’ll keep me from making any wrong turns. Whatever the needs, he’s always got them covered.

“God will generously provide all you need. Then you will always have everything you need and plenty left over to share with others.” (2 Corinthians 9:8, NLT)

Tired

Posted on by

Last night was lively. Although Nate had his usual medications for pain, nausea and anxiety throughout the day, by evening he was agitated and restless rather than his usual mellow. For a man with stage 4 cancer, he had way too much energy. As bedtime drew closer, I wondered if he would go to sleep. It reminded me of the feeling I got with a newborn, wondering when I put him/her to bed if we’d have an active night or a restful one. New babies are unpredictable. A man with pancreatic cancer is the same.

The rest of the household drifted off to their various beds and their expected sleep. Once Nate was settled, I sat beside him in the dim light of his room and wrote the blog, wondering why he didn’t “clunk” right off to sleep as he so often does. I went to bed at about 1:00 AM, hoping to sleep right through.

By 1:45, I was awakened by Nate checking to see if I was sleeping. I remember the same experience with one of my pre-schoolers tapping me on the shoulder during the night and saying, “Mom, I’m not going to wake you up, but I just have one question…” That, of course, was after he’d woken me up.

I took Nate’s hand and led him back to his hospital bed. He wasn’t tired and wanted my attention. “I’d like a drink of water.” After that, he said, “I’d like a drink of milk.” He seemed to be in toddler mode trying to postpone bed time.

I opened the shade in his room and showed him the night sky. “See?” I said. “It’s night time. Everyone is in bed. You have to sleep, too.” He nodded and obediently got back into bed.

Around 3:00 AM I heard kitchen cabinet doors and water running. Shuffling toward the commotion, I found Nate in the middle of making coffee. “I’m feeling like a cup of coffee,” he said, as if it was the middle of the afternoon. “Want one?”

Taking the decanter out of his hand and pouring the water out, I shut off the lights and said, “Look at the clock. It’s still night time, and we’re both tired.”

Once again he nodded and without resistance took my hand to head back to the bedroom. I wondered how many more episodes we’d have before dawn. This kind of a night goes on forever.

In an hour I heard him again, rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. “I can’t find my comb,” he said, as if he was getting ready for work. “I have so many but can’t find even one.”

Around 5:30, I heard him vomiting in the bathroom and found him struggling to stay standing while hanging onto the towel shelf above the toilet. It was long-distance vomiting, but of course he couldn’t get down on his knees. Soon it was morning, and I got up, walking to Nate’s room to check on him, fully expecting to find his bed empty, but there he was, sleeping soundly with his mouth open and his hands clasped across his chest. Just like a baby who’d been up all night, he needed rest.

Finally, at 2:00 PM, I wondered if he was in a coma or some other distress that was keeping him unconscious. It was difficult to wake him, but he finally roused and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked out the open window shade and said, “Oh. Morning. I can get up.”

“You’re partly right,” I corrected. “You can get up, but its not morning. It’s afternoon.”

Today he slept most of the day in his chair, waving away our attempts to bring him food. The mug of coffee he requested had been reheated four times but was still unsipped at the end of the day, and when he finally crawled into bed, he was completely worn out from doing nothing.

As I tucked him in, I quoted some Scripture, but he was too tired to participate. I sang two hymns, but his eyes were closed, and at the end, barely moving his lips, he whispered, “I’m so tired.”

“Though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies. It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3:32, 22-23)