He’d have a palliative care physician who couldhelp
adjustmedicationsandothertreatmentstominimizehis
nausea,pain,andothersymptomsasmuchaspossible.
He’dhaveregularnursingvisitsplusemergencynursing
supportavailabletwenty-fourhoursadaybyphone.He’d
havefourteenhoursaweekofahomehealthaide,who
couldhelpwithbathing,gettingdressed,cleaningupthe
house,anythingnonmedical.There’dbeasocialworker
andspiritualcounseloravailable.He’dhavethemedical
equipmentheneeded.Andhecould“revocate”—dropthe
hospice services—at any time.
Sheasked himifthesewereserviceshe’d liketostart
now or think about.
“Start now,” he said. He was ready. I looked at my
mother. Her face was blank.
Thenurse practitioner got into thenitty-gritty: Did he
have a DNR? A baby monitor or a bell for him to
summon acaregiver? A24-7presence inthehouse to
help?
Then she asked, “What funeral home do you want to
use?”andIwasdividedbetweenshock—arewereally
having this conversation?—and reassurance at how
normal and routine this was to her.
“Jagers,”hesaid,withouthesitation.He’dbeenthinking
aboutitallalong,Irealized. Myfatherwascalm.My
mother,however,wasstunned.Thiswasnotgoingwhere
she’d been prepared for it to go.
Thenurseturnedtoherand,notunkindlybutnonetheless
alltoo clearly,said,“Whenhe passesaway,don’t call