I continually evaluate my responsibilities as Lynne’s primary caregiver. I want to give her the best possible care with her limited functional abilities in the terminal stage. Our caregiving team of family and friends try to minimize her malnutrition, pain, loneliness, and anxieties.
We have reversed her malnutrition dropping her 114.7 pounds two months ago and raising her to 131.4 pounds on July 22. She weighed 165 when she moved in. She eats double the proportions of meals for sedentary residents, four calory boosters per day and snacks in between. We are taking a blood sample to see if visible winces of pain are caused by nutritional deficiencies and a scan to see if she has fractures in her feet or planter fasciitis.
Visits erase her loneliness so I maximize the times family and friends can be by her side when staff leave her on her own. Caregivers spoon-feed her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so I visit with a Starbucks Frappuccino after breakfast, cut-up pieces of banana nut bread after lunch, and a cup of ice cream after dinner. She desperately reaches out and rushes to embrace me with outstretched arms amid smiles or sobs. We hug tightly as I whisper in her ear, “I love you, you’re OK now, you’re safe.” She releases her hold and looks me in the face as she holds my arms. She usually wants to sit and eat my treat. She calms down more. We walk up and down the hallways as she grabs and releases my hand over and over.. She no longer responds to photographs, cards, notes, stories, or news about anyone. I talk quietly about family as if she understands. I clip on her fanny pack with her cellphone playing Pandora music lists from family and friends.
I see her as she is: hair disheveled, focused eyes scanning the area with lips sealed, or whispering something to make a point she emphasizes at the end. She turns her blue eyes on me for confirmation, so I agree, “OK, we’ll do it.”, or I’ll take care of it.” She nods as if to say she appreciates my promise. She or I spontaneously laugh, a strong full-bodied laugh and we laugh together and it goes on longer. When we walk
I see her as she was: hosting parties, playing with her sons, climbing steep trails, talking with Karen. I feel as I did when Karen and I sat together at a peaceful time of day, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet, or on walks holding hands. When Lynne and I share dad and daughter love, connected, and without worry, I believe we have the same fulfilling connected life of love we had before her diagnosis. When Karen and I shared our love near her end, I believe we had the same fulfilling connected life of love before her diagnosis. It drives me to visit Lynne often.
Her friend Nancy and friend LynnR brought her treats and loaded her into a car for nature time walks at Woodland Park. Lynne enjoys them because they bring sunglasses and hats, or what ever. “When we left, Nancy said, “Lynne gave us hugs and then was off to check on other residents.” God bless them. Lynne’s three sons visit her a couple of times a week and describe similar visits.
After 30-45 minutes of my visit, she is calm. I kiss her on her head and say, “Gotta go to work. I’ll be back after lunch.” She says, “OK,” and walks away as I slip away. I always wonder how long she’ll be OK, and whether I could have, or should have, stayed longer. I tell myself I visit her more than most caregivers, but that doesn’t relieve much of pain from her condition.