Not a Dirty Word

Mom sat at the table trying to regain her strength. The walk from the living room had taken all her energy. She insisted on having lunch in the kitchen, even though the exertion ruined her appetite every time.

We needed help from hospice. When I suggested it, Mom reacted as if I’d said a dirty word. To her, hospice meant giving up. To me, hospice meant quality-of-life care, for her as a patient and me as a caregiver. I tried to explain the difference, but Mom refused to listen.

At her next appointment, the doctor told her, “You’re not knocking on death’s door, but it’s time for hospice.” To my surprise—and relief—she agreed.

A hospice caseworker described the care Mom would receive and said she would actually feel better and enjoy each day more. She assured us that many patients receive services for months, even years. This wasn’t “the end”.

The next day Mom’s hospice nurse visited. She took interest in Mom as a person, not just a patient. She pampered her, listened to her and made her feel special. Mom said, “You are an angel from heaven sent just for me.” And me, I silently added. The nurse would now make decisions about Mom’s health and safety that I wasn’t equipped to make. Hospice took care of us both.