4:27pm October 9, 2014

I’m glad I have dexamethasone.

For most people, the warning sign of bad news is “Are you sitting down?”

For me it’s, “Please take your dexamethasone before you open the next email, okay?”

Then this:

Dad is going on hospice at the end of the day.
He will try his best to make it to Mom’s birthday, and he is not sure he will make it until his birthday.

Mom and Dad are in [hospital town], at hematology and bronchology.  Dad is getting an ultrasound.  They’re going to put in an abdominal tap so he can have some more room in his abdomen.  They may just do the one tap, or they may put in a permanent tap he can use at home.

Then, they’re going to [another town] where he will get his dressing changed, and go on hospice. No more chemo. Then, home after a long day.

Tomorrow, hospice will come out to the home. They will take care of paying for remaining rent on the hospital bed, and will provide oxygen.

I’m glad I took the dexamethasone.

I’m also glad I’m going to the caregiver support group tonight.  I don’t need to be alone brooding on this.  And soon I will call my parents.  Not tonight, but soon, once both they and I are capable of it.

I just badly hope my father goes out in whatever way he wants to go out – totally lucid, in his sleep, heavily drugged, totally unmedicated, inside, out in the woods, whatever works for him.  And I’d like to remind him that nobody dies alone.  Even if nobody is physically in the room with you, you will be taken care of, you will not be alone.  And even if I can’t be there physically, you know that my love is there with you no matter where you are, and that can’t be taken away from you, we’re connected too deeply.  I can feel it all the time now.

And 5 mL of dexamethasone is probably all that’s standing between me writing this, and me literally collapsing.

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