As the holidays approach, my thoughts are with my family, specifically with my deceased Dad. Three years ago this fall, my father was in hospice care at the same rural nursing home where his own father spent his last days. At the age of 80, my Dad was dying of cancer and did not want to undergo any further surgery or chemo drugs to prolong his life. He chose to die while receiving morphine for the increasing pain he endured from the growing tumors in his abdomen.
In October, 2013, I took time off of work and visited him while he was in hospice care. After signing in at the desk, I walked into my Dad’s private room which was furnished with a comfortable recliner where he spent much of his time, a television, a dresser, a small refrigerator, and a bed. He also had his own bathroom. His room also had two corner windows which let in an abundance of natural light and gave him a view of a small, but pretty little yard.
My Dad looked forward to the periodic visits of his two hospice nurses; it didn’t hurt that they were young and attractive. I was present during one of their visits and was relieved that they were very caring, loving individuals who only had my Dad’s comfort in mind. They made changes to his oxygen and medication as he needed.
According to the National Hospice and Palliative Care Organization (NHPCO), “The term ‘hospice’ can be traced back to medieval times when it referred to a place of shelter and rest for weary or ill travelers on a long journey. The name was first applied to specialized care for dying patients by physician Dame Cicely Saunders, who began her work with the terminally ill in 1948 and eventually went on to create the first modern hospice—St. Christopher’s Hospice—in a residential suburb of London. Saunders introduced the idea of specialized care for the dying to the United States during a 1963 visit with Yale University.”