My home health nurse completed her first visit with me at my mother's house. As she packed her medical equipment, she had one final task for me before she could move on to the next household. She needed my signature to verify she had gone over my vital signs with me. As with most people, asking for a signature is not a hefty ordeal. However, with little control of my nervous system, it was a complicated task for me. Luckily, my autograph typically looks like a decipherable drawing done by a toddler, so there was no need to sweat it.
From November 18, 2011 on, my mother was to be my primary caregiver. With that, the nurse spoke to mom at a minuscule volume, as if the nurse was whispering to her confidentially. I could hear a few truncated words, and phrases.
The nurse had a three ring binder of material, and notes for my mother to refer to, if needed. I heard the word hospice, again, and I still did not know what that implied. The only connection I could make was 'hospitality', after working in the food and beverage industry for my entire adult life. I was sure I was better off left in the dark when it came to things that were supposed to make me comfortable. It never sounded pleasant when nurses and doctors discussed my comfort level.