Dad came home from the hospital February 24th, after deciding not to pursue further medical treatment. He was offered dialysis, he declined since the chances of it actually helping were slim to none as he was facing both heart and renal failure. Dad had been in the hospital three times with stays in a rehab facility in between, but when we got him home he told me he was just happy to be here.
His brother flew down from Anchorage and both of his sisters were able to see him. One of my aunts was there at the hospital and then here with us almost every day, she was an amazing comfort.
I have many regrets about the last 3 months, but bringing him home will never be one of them. The hospice people were all wonderful, from the nurses to the social workers to the aides. Oddly, the nurse who did the hospice admit was the same one who did the hospice admit for my mom last fall and she remembered our family, small world.
Friends and family kept telling me what a great thing I was doing, and how strong I was, and how ‘amazing’ I was. I didn’t feel any of those things, all I knew was that no matter how strong or amazing the things I was doing were, in the end I was still losing my dad. We brought him home, thinking we would have weeks with him. In reality we had exactly one week, he died on March 3rd, here at home, with family.
I would give almost anything to have him back.
I still haven’t really broken down yet. It became a bit of a joke with friends and family that when it was all over I would have a spectacular breakdown on a warm sandy beach, with cabana boys bringing me fruity drinks with umbrellas.