The Corner

I hate that corner of the room. 

The steps and decisions that led to that statement are varied, but they are real and deeply felt.  It’s odd that different senses are involved too.  So I hate that certain area because of the sights, sounds and smells associated with it.  And the thoughts.  And that action.  I still remember the first time I entered that corner knowing about this disdain that was stirring in me.  I didn’t want to go in that corner!  But I knew I had to.

Dad started hospice care at home on a Monday in early April.  Within a few days, we had more literature about end-of-life realities than I thought possible.  Or helpful.  So much information was actually too much information.  Probably didn’t help that I really didn’t want to learn, let alone use, this material.  Especially the content about those four medications.  Now I like a nice and tidy spreadsheet.  And an easy grid could be created to assist in decision making as to when and how to administer those drugs.  Or not to do so.  Hopefully not.

When we reviewed those instructions, it was noted that these four pharmaceutical gems had a range of potency and severity.  In fact, we were told to store them in a safe place.  Not a dry place or a cool place, but a safe one.  I guess there’s a market for such elixirs.  And with a parade of people coming and going providing services and other visitors, well, you can’t be too careful.  So I made the decision to ‘hide’ the box of medications in that corner.  Behind the big television and in an unlabeled container.  And when I put it there, I did so muttering a prayer about never entering that corner for a good long while, if ever.

Weeks went by.  Could even count the time in months.  That room was the center of much activity.  Every activity actually.  Eat.  Sleep. Visit. Chat. Watch. Review.  Consider.  Discuss. Decide. Bathe.  And all else that you can imagine.  But that certain area was never entered or approached.  Though things were changing, and not for the better in most cases, the call from the corner never came.  Adjustments in care were made for sure.  Stop doing this and change the way we did that.  But no triggers that would send us off to the in-home pharmacy.

It was just after lunch on June 22.  Dammit, it was a Sunday.  June 22.  I kinda’ hate that day too.  Something was eerily different.  I sat on the couch facing the hospital bed that filled the living room.  I saw, heard and even caught a whiff of things that told me that a certain action may be needed.  As I observed this deterioration, I knew that…NO!  Not that corner!  Not those instructions! Not this drastic step!  If we went down that path, I knew the clock would begin on the EOL timing.  Once you start on those meds…

There have been a few times in my life when I felt really tired.  Like my legs couldn’t move tired.  Heavy legs.  Not sure I can even walk tired.  A super intense soccer practice.  A super long day of yardwork.  A super high blood sugar.  But that first trip to the corner behind the TV was easily the hardest six or seven steps I’ve ever taken.  NO, not that corner!  I had to steady myself multiple times just to make my way there.  Sick to my stomach.  Is there ANY other way?  Is this REALLY what we need to do? I hate that corner of the room.

I know that Dad was helped by the level 1 (my term) med that we started at 1:38 PM.  And the level 2 med that followed later that evening.  That spreadsheet was accurate.  When ABC happens and DEF characteristics show themselves, apply solution 123.  I get it. I just didn’t like that my daily log started looking like ‘4:15-tomato soup, 8:30-ice cream, 9:15-lorazepam’ and ’11:00-haloperidol, 1:45-soup and pop, 8:45-ice cream, 9:15-lorazepam’.  Yeah, liquids and softs only.  He couldn’t chew.  And the meds could just dissolve for the most part.  God how I hated going to that corner.

Though using the contents of that corner were now part of the common daily routine, I still kept them tucked away back there.  In the corner.  I’d like to say that it got easier to visit that area to retrieve the next dose, but it wasn’t.  Always with a fair amount of reluctance and with weighty, tired legs and a lump in my throat.  We last visited that area about 6:00 AM eleven days later.  Dad would have no need for the meds in a few hours.  

Around 10:40 or so, he moved to a new room with a new corner.  THAT room is filled with the presence not of a bed, but a throne.  The throne of the Great Healer.  And in the corner of that room?  Nothing hidden or unlabeled.  Dad is one of the ‘fellow citizens…of the household of God…Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone” (Ephesians 2:19-20).  The sights, sounds and smells in that corner are beautiful beyond description.  No hesitation.  No reluctance.  No heavy legs. No morphine.  No regretful daily logs.  No muttered prayers. 

Oh, how I love that corner of that room!