And so the New Deal was struck, the PICC line was placed, and – thankfully, I thought – our regular oncologist was scheduled to come back on duty after the long holiday weekend.
The kids made posters and signs for Dad, which we taped all around his hospital room. Our focus became encouragement, even more than before and even over medical intervention, and I believed that together we could WILL Dad to get better.
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| Making "We love you, Gramps!" signs |
Overnight at that point, Dad’s emotions went from worry and sadness to anger to determination, with the latter aimed at eating. Dad talked almost constantly about trying to eat, at one point even saying that he felt like his appetite would come back if he could just go out to eat. (Luckily, he acquiesced in that effort and agreed to eat some food that we got “to go” from a restaurant outside the hospital.) The PICC-line was being used for blood draws and IV meds, but, when we asked when the supplemental feeding would begin, the night-shift nurse told us it wouldn’t be until later in the day at the earliest because a “nutritional support” consult had to be completed first, and she added that, if Dad continued to eat like he had been overnight, “the port probably wouldn’t be used for nutrition because it’s better for him to get calories by eating.”
Right at 7 a.m., our regular oncologist came in to see Dad for his morning rounds, his first time to see Dad in four days. In what would become the second-to-most anger-inducing statement made around me by a medical staff member during the entire time Dad was sick (the first being said by the stand-in oncologist said on Christmas Day) , the oncologist jokingly said to Dad, “What happened? You were supposed to be better by now!”
Although I remember these words as if they had just been spoken, I don’t remember what I said back, if anything. I do, however, recall what I WANTED to say: “He was supposed to ‘get better’ from the surgery, from rehab, and from the Avastin! We were supposed to be taking him to a Grizzlies game tonight instead of being here in the hospital. We were supposed to have a memorable family celebration on Christmas at my parents’ house. In fact, if we’re talking ‘what happened’s’ and ‘supposed to’s,’ he was supposed to live to be 100!” There were so many things that were supposed to have been happening, but none of it was going according to plan, and at that point none of it even mattered; we just wanted the doctors to figure out how to get Dad feeling better.
After his opening statement, the oncologist looked at us sitting in the tiny, hard chairs around Dad’s bed in the freezing cold ICU room and said he wasn’t sure why Dad had been admitted to the unit in the first place. He chortled at the surgical masks we were all wearing and said that, since Dad’s blood count was in the normal range even when he was admitted to the ICU, the neutropenic precautions hadn’t been necessary during any of the time we’d been there.
With regards to the PICC line, he said, “That type of feeding will disturb blood sugar levels; it’s mostly sugar.” I wanted to scream, WHY IN HELL ARE WE JUST NOW FINDING THIS OUT? My blood pressure was rising by the second. I so desperately wanted to keep liking this guy, I wanted to trust him, and I wanted him to come in and clean up the mess that I felt had been created in his absence.
The oncologist seemed to think that what had been being done while he wasn’t around was “overkill,” which of course pissed me off beyond belief. (I don’t know if it made me madder to think that things weren’t handled correctly in his absence or just that he seemed to be second-guessing after his long holiday weekend.)He discontinued several medications and decreased a few others. He said he was adding a sleep medication and writing an order for anti-anxiety meds to be given as needed. He said that he wanted Dad to go to a regular floor immediately, for his comfort and for ours and because he felt the ICU-environment “wasn’t working for him.” (No kidding!) And then I asked him the question I knew Dad wanted me to ask the most: “What’s it going to take for him to be able to go home?”
“I want his blood pressure to be in a safe range, I want him to be getting up out of bed, and I want him to be eating regularly, and then I’ll discharge him.”
“OK!” Dad said enthusiastically, as if all of that was easy.
At the time, I thought that the oncologist thought Dad was about to get better, and so I viewed these changes as a positive step in the right direction. Looking back, though, I think at best the oncologist was short-sighted, under-informed, and/or thinking wishfully instead of really seeing Dad and his condition as they were; at worst the guy was throwing his hands up and had stopped seeing intensive intervention as being necessary or warranted.
By mid-morning, physical therapy had been ordered, the catheter had been removed, and Dad had been transferred back to the oncology floor. I thought Dad would be encouraged, but he kept forgetting how much longer he had to be in the hospital and what had to happen before he could go home, and he was discouraged and disappointed each time he was told that he probably wouldn’t be able to go home for several more days.
Not long after we got to the new room, the Physical Therapist came in, and together she and I helped Dad sit up on the edge of the bed for six minutes, an effort that completely exhausted and dispirited him. Following that, someone from Pharmacy came in and told us that TPN feeding would begin to be administered through the PICC line later that evening. When I pressed her for details as to why it was going to have been more than 24 hours after the line had been placed before the supplemental nutrition would be started, she didn’t really answer the question but did enlighten us to the fact that, evidently as was standard for all patients who’d just gotten a PICC-line, Dad would be “started slowly” on the TPN feeding, at first getting 700 calories per day and then building up to a maximum of 1000 calories per 24 hours. This was NOT what we had been led to believe before the line was placed. We were told that the PICC line would provide an opportunity for much greater caloric intake. I was enraged, but I gritted my teeth and stayed focused on Dad. What was done was, well, done, and maybe, I reasoned, the extra calories that he could get that way would help him get strong enough to get the hell out of that place.
For the first several hours that we were in the new room, the nursing staff seemed to struggle to accommodate Dad’s needs. Because it was still considered a “holiday week,” the regular oncology floor was shut down, and we were actually on the bone marrow transplant ward. Apparently, the nurses on that floor weren’t at all used to patients with neuro-like problems; most of the other patients there were independently walking laps with their IV-poles trailing them, and some were even going back and forth between their rooms and the little patient kitchen to get snacks or ice for themselves.
But we were floundering. The removal of the catheter seemed like excellent news at first, but it soon became a source of great distress for Dad and for us. Contrary to the oncologist’s apparent idea that Dad would regain his mobility and his strength as soon as he got out of the ICU, Dad, of course, was still bedbound. In fact, he couldn’t even move himself at all in the bed, much less sit up or stand. And thus maneuvering to use the bedpan or the urinal was difficult, to put it mildly (and, at that point, the idea of his using a bedside commode or getting up on a walker to make it to the toilet in the bathroom seemed like looking at the finish line of a marathon from the vantage point of mile one).
Humiliatingly and frustratingly to him, Dad had more than one mishap with the urinal. We were ready to do whatever it took to help him, but at the same time we wanted to try to preserve whatever was left of his dignity. When Dad’s sheets got wet the first time, I pushed the call button, and, when we hadn’t gotten a response more than 5 minutes later, I went out into the hall, found the nurse, and told her that Dad needed to have his sheets changed. “They’re in the linen closet,” she told me with a wave in that general direction, as if that solved the problem.
Fortunately, at shift change we were once again blessed by the Nursing Assignment Fairy; this time the nurse that swooped in to support us was John. Dad was still "giving it his all" to eat; when we clued John into the fact that we were very concerned about Dad’s caloric intake, John offered lots of “extras,” some of which Dad said “yes” to and then ate (including a Snickers bar). Without even being asked, he brought extra blankets because Dad continued to say he was cold, and he provided extra pillows to prop Dad up so that he felt warmer and more secure.
My 16 year-old daughter and I stayed with Dad for the first shift that night; Dad chatted easily with her and even said, “If you can find some popcorn and a Diet Coke, I wouldn’t mind sharing it with you while we watch something on TV.” With John’s help, she procured the snacks, and together they watched “American Chopper” and then a show about hair transplants while he quizzed her about her plans for college.
Throughout his stay in the hospital this second time around, including the four days in the ICU, pain from the bed sore on his lower back had continued to plague Dad. John was excellent at gently re-positioning Dad in different ways in the bed so that the pressure was taken off that area; he made an effort each time he came into the room to explain what he was doing and why to Dad and to us and even had me demonstrate my understanding of skills like propping Dad up with lots of pillows and rolled blankets. He wasn’t just acting as a nurse; he was also a teacher and a friend.
About 9 p.m. that night, John came in to give Dad his night meds, which, without notice to us by the doctor, had been changed to include a psychiatric medication called Restoril. While I wanted Dad to be able to sleep at night, I was very concerned about this choice of medication because I knew that it also affected the muscles and of course alertness and that it could also have several side effects for someone as sick as Dad was. I was also angered that the orders had been changed without any type of discussion with the doctor. It was just one more example of the mis-communication (or non-communication) and the half-assing that was going on WAY too often.
Dad swallowed that pill and his anti-seizure pills, and, shortly thereafter, he began to get groggy. His voice got so soft that we had to lean in close to him to hear him; with tears in his eyes, he said he wanted to be sure that Mom knew how much he loved her and that he couldn’t make it without her. He patted the space in the bed beside him – his sign for “I want someone to lie beside me” – and my daughter carefully hopped into the bed and tucked in next to him as he drifted off to sleep. About an hour later, my sister Jennifer and her husband arrived for their shift, and, without saying a word, Jennifer and my daughter seamlessly switches places without disturbing Dad. There would be more sleeplessness, more anxiety, more struggles with the urinal, and more medicine that night for Dad, but at least he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his family was there with him and, despite what was going on with the medical staff or anything else, that that’s where we planned to stay.
Remembering the days in the ICU and then in that room on the BMT floor, I remember so well feeling so impotent to stop what was happening or to do anything that truly seemed to be helping Dad. I am certain that the care at that hospital in general must be better than what we experienced, but, except for the few instances of competence and compassion from a few member of the nursing staff, it feels like Dad's care was awful from the moment he was wheeled into the ER. Having worked in health care for so long, I know what can sometimes happen – arrogant doctors shuffle in and out, people just work their shifts and do the bare minimum, revolving staff members see patients (and their families) as a short time problem to endure. It’s not right; it’s not fair. But Dad had been caught in the crossfire just the same.
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