Experiencing hospice care

My experience with hospice began June 19, 2004; brother Paul told me our oldest brother would probably die that night. Fred, then 73 and a 30-year veteran of the U.S. Navy, had survived World War II, Korea and Vietnam but not a three pack a day habit. Estranged from his family for reasons he never quite made clear, he had instructed the Navy Department not to notify us of his death. His social worker said his wishes changed; I doubt that but am grateful she was assertive.

The San Diego Hospice, like our local Kroc Center, was funded by Joan Kroc and includes two dozen hospice mini suites, a research center for palliative care, library, meditation center and cafeteria on a gorgeous hillside campus. The medical staff includes co-directors, both medical doctors and rotating residents; Fred was treated mainly by two fellows - last year residents - supported by nurses, business staff, musicians, chaplains, acupuncturists and even an aroma therapist. With 15 percent lung and heart capacity remaining, he had been comatose a week when we were contacted.

I called to say goodbye and to break 42 years of silence. Because he was comatose, they laid the phone by his ear. I was told later the nurse nearly ended up in hospice care herself; Fred awakened spontaneously and responded in a powerful voice, the first of many miracles, all made possible by hospice. We talked for two minutes or so before he lapsed into the coma again.

Historians give credit for modern hospice care to English physician Dame Cicely Saunders, who founded St. Christopher's Hospice in a London suburb in 1967. I met her briefly while staying with Fred who set a local record of 47 days in residential care. The facility does a lot of training; I did pro bono writing and consulting for them. The cafeteria cashier gave me a discount, assuming anyone there that long had to be an employee. I also became an ad hoc volunteer grief counselor.

Fred came close to dying every week; he would become comatose, live without food and water a week or so and then make a comeback before beginning the cycle again. They nicknamed him Lazarus. Brother Paul came several times from Indiana where his wife was in hospice care herself, dying of stomach cancer. Probably because he had regained family, Fred lived 19 more high quality months. I learned from his experience that hospice is more about living than dying.

Like most people, I had associated hospice care with old age. Not true. Two babies died there during my stay along with young trauma victims. My essays, however, refuted the notion that hospice referral is a death sentence. One of Fred's young docs decided he was suffering a very rare adverse drug reaction; once the drug was removed, he got better. About 20 percent of patients go home, some much improved. Fred was one. The drug was Atavan, also the name of the resident hospice cat.

Fred had withdrawal symptoms; he sent me on a 3 a.m. mission to steal scissors and tape so he could re-engineer medical equipment his dementia told him was malfunctioning. The night nurses recognized the reaction and laughingly said to tell Fred I'd been caught; he took news of my failure well and began work on a new scheme. The next day he was fine, weaned from the drug.

Since San Diego, our family has had three additional experiences with hospice operations, both nonprofit and profit-making; all were excellent. I am a true fan. I am not sure whether or not I will take a role in the residential facility now being constructed by Hospice of North Idaho but I remember a female volunteer in San Diego who visited every Sunday night, sometimes to talk with dying people, sometimes to read, pray or simply sit with them. I would like to be more like her. We are both Episcopalians. That's a start.

Tim Hunt, the son of a linotype operator, is a retired college professor and nonprofit administrator who lives in Hayden with his wife and three cats. He can be reached at linotype.hunt785@gmail.com.