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My friends...
I normally don't post personal matters on the board, however I'm compelled to talk about this.
My Father, Raymond Burton passed away on July 17th at 73 years of age.
In 2008 he was diagnosed with colon cancer, and had three surgeries to remove it.
Three years ago the doctors discovered cancer in his lungs, and he had two more major surgeries. 2011 was particularly bad as he was in the hospital for several months (he was actually not expected to survive the surgery itself). They had to remove part of his back muscle to repair the surgery performed on his chest.
They basically removed half of both lungs. My Father was a smoker from the age of 13.
After he was out of the hospital, he was being taken care of at home by a nurse that would see him once a day, and my Mother.
The wound in his back never did heal properly. He would experience varying degrees of pain every day. Some days he told me he would wake up and say something like "Please no! Not another day like this!"
He was taking morphine and oxycodone for the pain. Unfortunately while this would help with the pain, it would ruin his appetite. Taking him off (or trying to reduce) the meds proved impossible as he would have withdrawl symptoms, nausea, hallucinations etc.
He was a big man at one time- 5' 9" and around the 230lbs mark. Not muscle, he was very overweight.
After the multiple surgeries he was down to as little as 105lbs. He had become a skeleton of a man.
So this went on for two years of trying to get him to eat more to bring up his weight, trying to get him to do some exercises (obviously very basic movements) to improve his strength (including his ability to breathe properly with his diminished lung capacity) and dealing with pain.
There were times I believed he would have been better off "not" having the surgeries, as his life did not seem to improve at all afterward. It just prolonged it.
In the last couple of months, my Dad would eat less and less. This alarmed my Mother, but there was no arguing with him.
Saturday night (July 13th), he began experiencing delirium, being incredibly confused and forgetting simple tasks that he "thought" he had performed but in fact hadn't; such as believing he had just administered his insulin shot to himself properly (he was also diabetic), when he had not in fact done it at all.
The visiting nurse called 911 and had him immediately taken to the hospital. When my Father awoke in the emergency room, he was furious that he had been taken back to the hospital, and was yelling at my Mother, the nurses and doctors calling them all a bunch of murderers.
So there were times when I was going to come down to visit, but was told by my Mother not to, as we were both concerned it would upset him further (he yelled out that he didn't want anyone seeing him in this state). At one point he blurted out that he "just wanted to leave this Earth."
The doctors said that his lack of nutrition and especially drinking water had caused this. If he would start eating and drinking liquids, he might have a few more months left, otherwise it could be as little as two weeks. He was on a feeding tube in the meantime.
So my Mother begged him to start eating properly. He wanted to go home, but couldn't understand why he could not get up from the bed (he was in such a weakened state, he needed help to even shift positions in the bed). It was at this point that he realized how bad off he was, that going home was of the greatest importance, and that the only way was to get his strength back by eating. Which he now happily did (my Mother was spoon feeding him like a baby).
Tuesday night (July 16th), my Mother went home for the evening around 10pm to try and get some sleep.
At 11pm she received a call from the hospital that my Father had somehow gotten out of bed, and fallen hitting his head. He was not expected to survive more than 48 hrs.
I was called Wednesday morning (while at work) around 10am and told this. I immediately drove to the hospital (this was an hour's drive for me as I live in another city from my Parents).
When I arrived in his room, my Father had a huge bandage wrapped around his head (that had a bit of blood seeping to the surface), and was totally imobile. At the time I came in, they were replacing the mattress of his bed and were transferring him from the guerney back to the bed. He wasn't conscious.
When he was settled in the bed, it was clear that the damage was done. My Father would not respond to us talking to him, could not speak, and would only randomly open his eyes (which would either stare blankly, or roll back into his head).
As horrible as what I'm about to say will sound, it was the cold hard truth, he had become a vegetable. The man I knew as my Father had gone the second his head hit whatever it was (we believe it may have been the edge of the bed).
So to answer what happened-
At some point after my Mother left, he was trying to call a nurse but couldn't. In an incredible display of strength, he managed to get out of the bed and walk three steps hanging onto the privacy curtain for leverage. He poked his head around the curtain to the fellow patient sharing the room with him, and told him to call a nurse as he needed help. When he tried to turn around to go back to bed, that is when he fell.
The bed had those railings along the sides to prevent him from either falling out of bed, or getting out on his own (as he would require assistance to go "anywhere").
The railings were not raised.
The bed had an alarm that would alert a nurse if he tried to get up out of bed.
The alarm was either faulty or not activated. It did not go off.
And finally someone was supposed to be watching him at all times. They weren't.
And so this happened.
Probably the most disgusting thing I saw that day was a sign posted above his bed that said "Fall Risk Assement" with three "check boxes" underneath. "Supervision", "1st person assist", and "2nd person assist". The first and third boxes had been checked off with a black magic marker, dated July 16th... the night my Father fell.
I wanted to rip the sign off the wall, but I wasn't going to cause a specticle in front of my Mother and what was left of my Father.
He died that evening just before 7pm in my Mother's arms.
So... we knew this day would come eventually, but not in this manner. My Father is gone. And I am grateful that he is no longer in pain. I am okay.
However words cannot express how I feel about the events leading up to this.
Needless to say, someone will answer for this. My Mother and I are not out for any monetary gain. It would disgust me to profit one dollar from my Father's passing. And I would be incensed hotter than any inferno if we were offered a settlement out of court to "make this go away." What we want is accountability so it does not happen again.
My Mother is doing okay. My Father and her had spoken of this day for a long time and said everything that needed to be said between them so both would be at peace.
I'm doing alright as well.
As per his wishes there would be no funeral. He will be cremated and his ashes scattered in the cemetary where his Mother is buried. We will have a "gathering" at a later date. Essentially a "wake" to celebrate his life.
I guess this is all I have to say. I thank you for listening.
Kevin
_________________
I told you I'd shoot, but you didn't believe me! WHY DIDN'T YOU BELIEVE ME!?!
Last edited by SSgt Burton on Sat Jul 20, 2013 2:09 am, edited 1 time in total.
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AKA: Simon
Be strong, Kevin, and we're here if you need support of any kind. So sorry.
