Do Not Resuscitate
They call him Grampa George. He is neither a Grampa, nor is his name George. At first blush, Grampa George appears to be a grumpy Octogenarian, skin bronzed in-between the liver spots, his gaze while bright is clearly not in the Present. His voice is hard, all sandpaper, gruff throat chortling, and a rhythm of speech cadence which takes you a moment to comprehend: his lungs do not produce enough air to properly expel the sound of his words. But like his name, he is not what he appears. Grampa George was Somebody before time and 2 packs of Winstons a day took his mobility and his ability to inhale without choking.
They call him Grampa George. He is neither a Grampa, nor is his name George. At first blush, Grampa George appears to be a grumpy Octogenarian, skin bronzed in-between the liver spots, his gaze while bright is clearly not in the Present. His voice is hard, all sandpaper, gruff throat chortling, and a rhythm of speech cadence which takes you a moment to comprehend: his lungs do not produce enough air to properly expel the sound of his words. But like his name, he is not what he appears. Grampa George was Somebody before time and 2 packs of Winstons a day took his mobility and his ability to inhale without choking.
(Excuse me, his mobility is fine, he’s got two legs which carry him just fine.... around the 10- square feet he spends his time. He doesn’t need any help, he doesn’t want anything from anyone, just don’t help him and leave him alone.)Over the course of 2 weeks, I discovered that Grampa George is a retired First Responder, a Retired Registered Nurse. His specialty was Trauma. If you catch him on a day before he starts choking down Cigarettes (“the damn things are useless, not killing me fast enough!”), he will tell you stories of Paramedics and Law Enforcement picking up Grampa George from the Hospital Emergency Room on their way to a grisly accident or disaster. When it dawns on you he is speaking about the 1960’s & 1970’s their is a humbling moment - Medicine was practically Stone Age in comparison to what we have in 2018. After nearly 30 years of his super hero Trauma Skills, people noticed he was the RN which ushered off the dying with Dignity in their most Desperate Hour. He got the nickname Angel of Death, because he made the last moments of a Traumatic Incident soft, loving, and easy. As he reached his 40’s, when the whirlwind of 70’s Disco was flying high and the Cocaine was killing Socialites at record speeds, and The Big C was scaring the daylights out of the American Public, Grampa George was encouraged to work Hospice. As legendary as his Trauma Skills were, his reputation as a fierce Pain Management Advocate for the Terminally Ill made him a prime candidate. And so, as Disco rang it’s very last Death Knell, Grampa George changed his focus from Saving Lives in the most Traumatic circumstances, to the gentle Concierge, guiding the Terminally Ill through their journey to the End with no Pain and no Trauma.
So at this point, you realize every preconception you have of this grumpy old
guy is completely wrong and in some cases quite insulting. If you sit down
and have a cigarette, smoking with Grampa George at his pace, he will start
slowly and quietly chatting. With you.
It took nearly 2 weeks before someone asked about my Disabled Veteran Status. When I got to the part of the Story where 3 separate Surgeries resulted in 3 Defibrillations, Grampa George opened up like a Flower. His animation was incredible for all the shuffling feet and chocking.
In further conversation, Grampa began telling me about his Retirement Journey and how he ended up in a small Arts Village in Long Beach. The
It took nearly 2 weeks before someone asked about my Disabled Veteran Status. When I got to the part of the Story where 3 separate Surgeries resulted in 3 Defibrillations, Grampa George opened up like a Flower. His animation was incredible for all the shuffling feet and chocking.
“You Ne-e-eed a Do Not Resuscitate Order”, he coughed out.His quiet words hit me like a ton of bricks. He was narrating out loud the chorus which runs through my head on a daily basis. A cold shiver ran through my body as I sat in front of the first individual I have ever met who absolutely understood on an intimately personal level my Lived Experience.
“I have one”, I replied“No, you need the Bracelet, your DNR needs to be on your Body!” his whisper belied the urgency he was conveying to me. “When First Responders come they don’t know. They are gonna revive you, help you and take you over to your VA. Because they don’t know!”I had never considered Paramedics when I completed my Advance Directive with a DNR attached.“It’s the defibrillation that I can’t stand. It hurts so much, for days and days. Every surgery I believe it’s the last one, that I am finally free, and then they shock me back to life and I am trapped again”, I said to Grampa.“And look how you are living!” he whispered. “They brought you back to what? Is this life? Is losing everyone and everything in your life, that is living?” the look of anger and betrayal in his eyes told me he understood. “I want no help, just let me die already.”
In further conversation, Grampa began telling me about his Retirement Journey and how he ended up in a small Arts Village in Long Beach. The
level of Betrayal Grampa George experienced at the hands of Family and
Good Friends, left him with nothing but his monthly Social Security Stipend.
The Betrayal was so encompassing that his Good Friends and Loving Family
would not even drive him to Doctor Appointments, when he was still seeing
the Doctor. I did not believe there were other people in the world who
experienced Betrayal the way I have. I thought I was alone, I thought the
reason no one understands my anger at Betrayal was because no one has
experienced the devastation. Instead, I discovered that Betrayal is at the
core of Modern Society. Taking advantage of an individual you deem
unworthy or less-than is part of the American Fabric. Even if that individual
saved your grandfather’s life or dispensed grace to your dying Mother.
I have been spending my days with Grampa playing Rummikube or Hearts if 2 other people show up. His intelligence is quite stunning. But then he has been playing these games so long he has memorized every combination imaginable. The other morning, while sharing our morning coffee & smoke, Grampa chugged and choked for a few minutes. When the episode passed, he looked at me and said “I wish this would hurry up, I can feel things getting worse, it’s getting close.” He looked at me through the smoke of his cigarette for a long time, then he said “Remember, you call the Coroner not the Paramedics, got it?”
I nodded my head, “If I am here when it happens, I promise I will do everything I can to ensure no one brings you back.”
As I digested what I had just promised this old man, I realized that in 20 years I could be Grampa, begging everyone I have contact with, complete strangers, to let me die.
On Tuesday morning he told all of us the time was really close. He was slower, more quiet, and went to his room early. On Wednesday when he came out to the Smoking/Game Table, he looked amazing. Pressed pants, clean pressed shirt, and he was wearing his jewelry. Everyone made comments how he must be feeling better. I agreed verbally, but in my mind I knew differently. Grampa was dressed to be ready for his last Great Adventure. He is making sure he looks nice when the Coroner arrives.
I have been spending my days with Grampa playing Rummikube or Hearts if 2 other people show up. His intelligence is quite stunning. But then he has been playing these games so long he has memorized every combination imaginable. The other morning, while sharing our morning coffee & smoke, Grampa chugged and choked for a few minutes. When the episode passed, he looked at me and said “I wish this would hurry up, I can feel things getting worse, it’s getting close.” He looked at me through the smoke of his cigarette for a long time, then he said “Remember, you call the Coroner not the Paramedics, got it?”
I nodded my head, “If I am here when it happens, I promise I will do everything I can to ensure no one brings you back.”
As I digested what I had just promised this old man, I realized that in 20 years I could be Grampa, begging everyone I have contact with, complete strangers, to let me die.
On Tuesday morning he told all of us the time was really close. He was slower, more quiet, and went to his room early. On Wednesday when he came out to the Smoking/Game Table, he looked amazing. Pressed pants, clean pressed shirt, and he was wearing his jewelry. Everyone made comments how he must be feeling better. I agreed verbally, but in my mind I knew differently. Grampa was dressed to be ready for his last Great Adventure. He is making sure he looks nice when the Coroner arrives.
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