Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Wonders never cease. She's one hundred and four; Alzheimers, dementia, blind, living in the nursing home. A GI bleed brought her to the hospital and a visit to Interventional Radiology, where she had a cardiac arrest on the table. Well yes, of course she is a full-code, because her adult kids want everything done. Now she's on the ventilator in our unit, with the family expecting a "full" recovery!?!

One Hundred and Four

One hundred and four years of age
As if that’s not too old,
To perform goddamned heroics
And still the family will scold,
The doctors and nurses,
During that long CPR,
Because Momma is busted
Like a broken down car.

Suffering forty years of old
She went bad, after sixty-five,
It’s a wonder, this woman
Can even claim to be alive,
She has a spongiform brain
And Alzheimers too,
Her children are convinced
That she can still count to 2.

She’s on the ventilator
She had a GI bleed,
Her skin is like tissue
Where the bacteria feed,
Her heart beats a rhythm
Unclassified in the books,
This is not rocket science
Despite how it looks.

She's just an old, worn out woman
She can't tell day from night,
But her family wants everything
And they're willing to fight.

__ __ __ __ __ __ __


Grandson takes care of her
He's on the county dole,
He's hoping she'll make it to 105
Before he puts her in the hole,
Then he can put all of his attention
On his sadly, stroked-out Mother,
He hasn't been employed in ten years
So he'll be looking for another.

Impaired relatives are his specialty
They can name him in their wills,
Who would ever suspect this caregiver
Who is handing out the pills,
Yes, this grandson, is a piece of work
He's found his niche in life,
Taking care of family members
Instead of taking a wife.

I'd be careful if I went visiting
To the house of his holy endeavors,
Expecting trap-doors in the floors
Controlled by hidden levers,
Incapacitating me in the process
To become, his next bedridden fool,
Suffering to the very end of my days
As his financial-freedom tool.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Little Miss Last Century

Extubated at last
Comfort measures, and a no-code,
Maybe Miss Last-Century
Can finally retire to her abode,
An impending celestial discharge
To be carried gently to her Heaven,
Her grandson stepped out
He's down at the 7-11.

Pain and suffering
And unsavory medical measures,
Are finished at last
She's done with earthly treasures,
She may appear unconscious to us
But she's in direct communication,
As the Divine beckons to her
Her spirit reaches out, with anticipation.

Grandson raises a ruckus
When little Miss Last-Century dies,
Five minutes after her transfer
He's full of anger, that's no surprise,
He lost all precious control
When Grandma finally checked out,
His true nature clearly exposed
Absolutely, there's no doubt.

Sweet, little Miss Last-Century
We suffered too, there by your side,
Administering your care so gently
Until the day that you died,
Rejoicing in our own ways
That you cast away the shackles of Earth,
A little piece of advice to you
Take a long rest, before your rebirth!


1 comment:

K. Tree said...

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. And an AMEN, too. I live this in the nursing center almost weekly.

My son has instructions to just let me cross over when the time comes. I sure do not want to drool away the rest of my life like some of my residents are forced to by their families.