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The palliative care nurse dropped by an hour ago to see my Dad, which has prompted me to write this.
It’s been a while since the last update on my Dad. “Bob” has been the cancerous plague that’s been wracking through his body wherever it pleases. Since my last post, it’s developed into bowl cancer and has shown no mercy.
I feel pain, anger, frustration. With the NHS over here in the UK in shambles due to lack of funding, Bureaucracy has been our main obstacle between my dad and our family and getting anything done. The conditions in the Accident & Emergency sections are awful. Nobody seems to want to treat him with an ounce of humanity. Instead they’re focused more on getting patients out of hospital as fast as possible. The light in the darkness was Macmillan Cancer Support. They’ve been angels from above, reaching out their hand to provide care and funding to getting the best care my Dad can possible receive.
Please, if you can, donate to their cause here.
I want someone to blame when there is no blame to be validly thrown anywhere except towards life for dealing my Dad a shit hand of cards. He’s done everything for us. He worked a job he hated, but one that paid well in order to give us a life worth living--mortgage-free house, money to see his son and daughter through ‘till old age and all the love and care in the world.
It has hit my mum the hardest emotionally. What was once a happy-go-lucky woman in her 50s is now a woman who’s a distraught shadow of her former self, now struggling to keep an appetite like the rest of us. She’s made her bedroom her home, sitting by the hospital bed that was delivered two weeks ago to help him rest better. She rarely leaves his side and I don’t blame her.
My Dad has become bedridden for the past few weeks. It’s been difficult suddenly becoming part of a team of carers for my Dad. Through we’re a family and team effort and being alert 24/7, we are not as experienced as the District nurses that make house calls once or twice a day.
Which brings me to my first mention of the palliative care nurse. She’s been working wonders slicing through the bureaucratic hell hole that is the UK’s healthcare system and getting things in line to make my Dad feel more comfortable in his last moments on Earth. She broke the news to him that he will have to use a bedpan from now on, which brought him to tears. My Dad has always held his dignity to the highest standard. Nevertheless, we will be there for him and supporting him all the way. We will not give up on him.
How long he truly has left is something we don’t know, but she informed us she doubt he’ll be with us for Christmas.
I love you, Dad.
It’s been a while since the last update on my Dad. “Bob” has been the cancerous plague that’s been wracking through his body wherever it pleases. Since my last post, it’s developed into bowl cancer and has shown no mercy.
I feel pain, anger, frustration. With the NHS over here in the UK in shambles due to lack of funding, Bureaucracy has been our main obstacle between my dad and our family and getting anything done. The conditions in the Accident & Emergency sections are awful. Nobody seems to want to treat him with an ounce of humanity. Instead they’re focused more on getting patients out of hospital as fast as possible. The light in the darkness was Macmillan Cancer Support. They’ve been angels from above, reaching out their hand to provide care and funding to getting the best care my Dad can possible receive.
Please, if you can, donate to their cause here.
I want someone to blame when there is no blame to be validly thrown anywhere except towards life for dealing my Dad a shit hand of cards. He’s done everything for us. He worked a job he hated, but one that paid well in order to give us a life worth living--mortgage-free house, money to see his son and daughter through ‘till old age and all the love and care in the world.
It has hit my mum the hardest emotionally. What was once a happy-go-lucky woman in her 50s is now a woman who’s a distraught shadow of her former self, now struggling to keep an appetite like the rest of us. She’s made her bedroom her home, sitting by the hospital bed that was delivered two weeks ago to help him rest better. She rarely leaves his side and I don’t blame her.
My Dad has become bedridden for the past few weeks. It’s been difficult suddenly becoming part of a team of carers for my Dad. Through we’re a family and team effort and being alert 24/7, we are not as experienced as the District nurses that make house calls once or twice a day.
Which brings me to my first mention of the palliative care nurse. She’s been working wonders slicing through the bureaucratic hell hole that is the UK’s healthcare system and getting things in line to make my Dad feel more comfortable in his last moments on Earth. She broke the news to him that he will have to use a bedpan from now on, which brought him to tears. My Dad has always held his dignity to the highest standard. Nevertheless, we will be there for him and supporting him all the way. We will not give up on him.
How long he truly has left is something we don’t know, but she informed us she doubt he’ll be with us for Christmas.
I love you, Dad.
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Trust me, I know how you feel.
My mother passed away 4 months ago, after battling cancer for over a year and a half.
She was beating it, and the doctors were positive and saying that as long as she took an estrogen suppressing medication, the cancer would die on its own. After a year and 8 months, she was finally on the upswing.
But all of the medication, all of the hours in a bed, and the therapy, and all of the stress that had come with the diagnosis, took its toll on her.
My mom died in her sleep while in my dads arms while they were watching TV. A blood clot had developed in her liver and blocked the major artery exiting the liver. It took her life in a matter of minutes while she slept.
The doctors say that the blood clot was in a relatively simple location, and that it was not normally such a fast killer, but due to her body's weakness and how much it had endured for the past year and a half, it was just the final straw and her body just quit.
So...yeah...I was promised to have my mother back only to have her taken away from between my fingers again.
My mother passed away 4 months ago, after battling cancer for over a year and a half.
She was beating it, and the doctors were positive and saying that as long as she took an estrogen suppressing medication, the cancer would die on its own. After a year and 8 months, she was finally on the upswing.
But all of the medication, all of the hours in a bed, and the therapy, and all of the stress that had come with the diagnosis, took its toll on her.
My mom died in her sleep while in my dads arms while they were watching TV. A blood clot had developed in her liver and blocked the major artery exiting the liver. It took her life in a matter of minutes while she slept.
The doctors say that the blood clot was in a relatively simple location, and that it was not normally such a fast killer, but due to her body's weakness and how much it had endured for the past year and a half, it was just the final straw and her body just quit.
So...yeah...I was promised to have my mother back only to have her taken away from between my fingers again.
This same thing happened to my grandma, and very nearly to my sister and mother. I will light a candle for your father, and hope that his last moments will be mercifully happy, and that you and your family will find the strength and love to live happy lives even through and after this. Your father sounds like an amazing person who deserves better than this. The hospitals treating patients coldly and simply wanting to be rid of them is a familiar story to me, and it warms my heart to hear that the palliative nurse and the MacMillan Cancer Support group have managed to mean so much for you where the institutes best equipped to help your father have failed you.
I wish you all the very best. I know I am a stranger, but I understand, at least in part, what you're going through and I'm writing this with tears in my eyes. If you ever feel the need to talk with someone about it, you should feel free to contact me. You sound like a beautiful family. I hope your father beats the odds and gets that last Christmas with you like he should.
I wish you all the very best. I know I am a stranger, but I understand, at least in part, what you're going through and I'm writing this with tears in my eyes. If you ever feel the need to talk with someone about it, you should feel free to contact me. You sound like a beautiful family. I hope your father beats the odds and gets that last Christmas with you like he should.
My father fell ill on one Christmas morning and he died a week later. Believe me when I say that no one wants to suffer anything like that on such a sacred and blessed holiday.
I hope and pray that you'll find some level of peace during this rough time with your father, and I hope you will spend as much time as you can with him before the end. I didn't get that chance and I have regretted it ever since.
I hope and pray that you'll find some level of peace during this rough time with your father, and I hope you will spend as much time as you can with him before the end. I didn't get that chance and I have regretted it ever since.
Es tut mir leid.
I know that feeling of powerlessness, how it can sink hooks of despair into the heart and soul.
I will say take a hiatus, spend this time well. Let him know he did a good job by you. Help your mother through her grief. We will still be here when you get back.
You're welcome to drop a PM to this stranger if you ever need to vent, just to have somebody listen and give a shit about you and your world.
I know that feeling of powerlessness, how it can sink hooks of despair into the heart and soul.
I will say take a hiatus, spend this time well. Let him know he did a good job by you. Help your mother through her grief. We will still be here when you get back.
You're welcome to drop a PM to this stranger if you ever need to vent, just to have somebody listen and give a shit about you and your world.
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