I used to say that despite the assertions of geneticists, I inherited a Y chromosome from my dad, because like him, I want to know WHY about everything in life. There are times when I wonder why we had to go through such a terrible ordeal this week. I know that all things work together for good to those that love the Lord and are called according to His purpose, but what was His purpose in this? There were times when I was so confused and angry with God for letting my dad suffer as he did. Those couple of days were SO dark, I had such a deep agony of soul over what Dad was going through, and what the rest of us were experiencing through the lack of management by the hospice. Dad endured so much pain in the last few years, couldn’t he just have a quiet, gentle end without that? What was God’s purpose in allowing him to endure that at the end of his life? And what kind of beauty could He bring from the ashes of this trial? What merit could come from so much hurt?
A woman from the hospice called this afternoon in response to the e-mailed complaint I sent them. She wanted to know what made it such a bad experience. I wanted to ask her how long she wanted to be on the phone. And as I recounted the things that haad happened (or not happened) my mind began to relive them. It was all I could do to finish sentences, the tears came and sometimes just sobs when I remembered hearing that wailing from Dad. I’m not a confrontational person by nature, but the anger and indigation just overflowed as I found the words. We had a reasonable expectation, based upon the promises of the representative who did the admission, that this was going to be our support system. The memo board your people set up had visits twice a week, even once a month, but with end stage renal failure, Dad had a week left, tops. She assured me that a chaplain would be calling on my mother in the next week or so. Next week or so? Why would she need a chaplain THEN? I wanted to scream. What idiots, what insensitive fools these people must be. They’re supposed to be the professionals who deal with death and dying for a living. We had no experience in this, we needed information, we needed support. We did this thing virtually alone, fumbling in the dark trying to find out what to do next. I want to make sure this NEVER happens to another patient or family, I told her. Nobody should have the kind of horrible experience we had. If they couldn’t service our area, they should have referred us to a company that COULD. Meds with no dosage instructions, and then instructions that conflicted, they dropped the ball time and time again. She kept saying she was so sorry, she was so sorry. And I’m sure she was. But after we were done, I was just sick to my stomach. Like a kick in the gut I felt like I was struggling to breathe. And all the rest of the afternoon and evening I’ve been just exhausted and sad. Can’t seem to focus on anything, I’m noise-sensitive and just want a quiet place to curl up and cry. Is this like Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, I wonder? Will I ever feel normal again for a whole day?