Better
It’s hard to remember sometimes that I actually have my own life, my own interests outside of sitting in hospitals and nursing homes—the activity that has dominated the last month for me. I had conferences with students this week and it felt good to get back to being a different sort of care provider. Maybe it’s just that I’m in a generous mood, but the professional and technical writing class I’ve had this semester has been one of the best of my career. People are engaged and involved for the most part, and have picked projects that have some relevance to their career paths. That always makes a difference. Although Krista has taught a unit for the past month so that I could tend to my mother, I still think of them as my class.
One thing that has really made this class click is the use of more technology—I used google docs for the first time with great success, and Krista has taught the instructions module using wikis. I am a firm believer in technology in the classroom, and this has been effective both as a way of presenting material and concepts, but also in just plain getting the job done. Being separated by several states has not made me lose touch with the class at all. It may have its dark side, but I really do think that technology is mostly good.
In the shower this morning, it dawned on me that at the core I really believe that technology has the ability to tell us more about the world. The danger, ultimately, though is losing sight of the world part of that equation. Fantasy has its uses, but in the end, reality is what matters.
March 28, 2008 1:16 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Aware
I think that most of us would probably prefer if death crept up on us slowly, striking suddenly when we were unaware. Being conscious of your inevitable death seems cruel, having it happen suddenly seems so much kinder. My father died suddenly, with little or no warning about five years ago. My mother is in a much different position. She was forced into hospice care about a week ago, as the cruel medical committee responsible for her care simply gave up. There isn’t any recourse to the decision—even though she cannot care for herself any longer, she was pressed into leaving the hospital.
I was blissfully unaware of the fact that there are multiple-year waiting lists for admission into the better class of nursing facilities. Krista explored dozens of options for me, and located only one place where she could have a private room (the minimum standard for a livable arrangement in my opinion). We settled her in there last week just in time for my birthday. Then the onslaught began.
“Are you aware that your condition is terminal? Do you understand what that means?”
About every three hours, some well-meaning social engineer, clergy, or counselor would enter my mothers room and announce the reality of her condition. This went on for days, until we found all the valves to shut off the endless supply of drips landing on her. My mother is a very private person, and does not want any consolation from strangers. Nor does she wish to participate in the social life of the institution she must now reside within. She mostly wants her family to be near. She just wants to be left alone, with her dignity intact. That seems to be nearly impossible.
Day by day her short term memory lapses, while her long term memory perseveres. It hurts to watch her fade out. I’m sad to see her so angry. She’s at peace with most things, but at odds with all these new people in her life’s final stage—and I empathize so much with that. Sometimes silence is much kinder than speech.
