I was going over and over in my mind last night a consultation I had with the psyche nurse that contracted with the facility where Dad was staying -- my heart aches revisiting this stuff -- but she was trying to convince me that upping Dad's antipsychotic meds was in his best interest. Bullshit! In my discussions with the facility's doctor we had agreed his meds would be reduced so that he could be weaned off of them all together. "I think those meds are toxic to his system," I told her. "I'm not comfortable with the drugs and I'm afraid they may not interact well with the other 20-30 other medications he's on." She looked at me with the kind of sympathy dripping from her eyes that she probably reserved for family caregivers who think they know more than medical professionals when, her attitude suggested, they do not.
"Look she said," lowering her voice the way you would with an excitable child. "Your Dad was taking his shirt off in front of the other residents the other day. That's no way for anyone to live." I think I recall her patting my hand. "If you care about your Dad you'll consider this so that he can have quality to his life. I had to do the same thing with my own grandfather.“ I remember thinking she must not have liked her grandfather much. “And I've looked into his other medications and these drugs will not interact negatively." A balled face lie.
I told her I needed to think about it and possibly do a bit of research on the drugs in question. She was quick to add that the information found on the net may be daunting but that I needed to look more at the benefits this could make in Dad's day to day life.
The information I found on such drugs indicated increased risk of death and that the incident of death was typically caused by infection and heart problems in elderly patients. I remember feeling so torn. There was no one willing to stay home with Dad during the day anymore, especially now that his health had further declined. He was no longer mobile and moving him around would probably take at least two people. I didn't want to keep Dad on the stuff, but the next day he tried to get up from his bed and fell. When the nurse from the facility called me she said that I needed to reconsider putting him on the recommended dosage as (strong insinuation) they would not be able to keep him safe at the facility because he would continue to try and get up when unsupervised, and hurt himself again. Hating myself, I authorized the use of the medications as suggested by the psyche nurse however made it clear I would be making every effort to bring him home and at that time would withdraw him from all antipsychotic medications.
By the time Dad came home it was too late. He was coming home to die.
I hate -- really detest -- that elderly people are being over medicated, regardless to the danger to them, so that they can be better "managed" while in rehab or hospital environments. Dad was to the point where he was zombie like and I will never forget my conversation with the doctor about reducing the medication, "But he's doing so much better now. He doesn't try and get out of bed." No, he didn't try to do anything, except lay there, his eyes bleak and so sad. To my absolute breaking heart, I truly understand and believe with every ounce of my soul it was not the best thing for him. I wish I'd trusted my instincts, taken him off the medications they'd prescribed, and brought him home sooner. The replay of past events leading to Dad's passing -- rewinds over and over again in my mind -- torments me.
I have developed what I now understand to be a very deep distrust of the medical community. Simply put, they lie. With respect to elderly people, there is not enough respect for the adults that they were and are, for the contributions they've made over the years to the communities in which they've lived, or effort given to preserve the dignity they own and rightly deserve.
Dad's worst fears became his reality the last few months of his life, being bed or wheelchair bound, sitting in wet undergarments until an attendant could assist him, wheeled into a room and left to sit aimlessly in front of a television set until being wheeled back to his room. And as his family, we should have worked harder, together, to bring him home sooner, so that the time he had left could be spent where he was the most comfortable; in dignity and love.
And whether we realize it or not, Dad's last days were also our worst nightmares come true; a vivid and detailed look into our own futures.
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