Pack Your Own Healthcare Parachute - Shiella Dowlatshahi

Pack Your Own Healthcare Parachute (eBook)

A Physician's Death Through His Daughter's Eyes

Shiella Dowlatshahi (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
128 Seiten
10-10-10 Publishing (Verlag)
978-1-77277-545-7 (ISBN)

Pack Your Own Healthcare Parachute: A Physician's Death Through His Daughter's Eyes is a beautiful story of an adored husband and father of three, a revered physician turned patient, caught in the web of today's dysfunctional medical system and requiring advocacy. In the book, Shiella Dowlatshahi, a first-generation American, tells her father's life story, his passion and commitment to patients, and the heartbreaking journey endured by their family during her father's devastating illness. Pack Your Own Healthcare Parachute also tells a poignant story about a father's role as a physician, his journey as a patient, and how the changing medical landscape impacted his care. Sharing the lessons she learned about terminal illness, family dynamics, patient advocacy, and the interplay of these factors, Shiella strives to prepare other families, facing similar circumstances, avoid some of the pitfalls along the way. Shiella advises families to be educated consumers of medicine and choose their medical care carefully with the extensive information now available about hospital and provider performance. Hiring an advocate or choosing a concierge provider may also be an excellent option to ensure well-coordinated care. Be inspired by this family and learn from their journey, giving yourself the means to advocate for yourself and your loved ones in a health crisis.

Chapter 1

One Precious Life

Thursday, March 12th

I opened my eyes after what felt like just a few moments of sleep, to see him lying motionless in the bed across the room. A light tint of yellow on his skin had replaced his usually glowing olive skin. Short gray stubble covered his face now, aging him even more. Surveying his eyelids for a few minutes, I grew more despondent with the lack of movement. In the silence of the room, his shallow breaths were marked. One look at the monitor told me all I needed to know. His mouth was still open; I could almost fool myself into thinking he was in a deep sleep, taking a break from a long snore. He was cold to the touch and did not react as he had in the past few weeks when I squeezed his hand.

Tears started to collect in my eyes, and before I knew it, they were racing down my face. Why him? Why now? He had so much to do on this Earth. None of it made sense to me. As I gathered the thin, hospital-issued blanket, frequently used as my pillow and cover, I popped the reclining chair back into position. The leg rest snapped back, making a loud noise. I looked to see if he heard anything, hoping he would open his eyes or move—just one more time. Startled by the gentle whisper, my attention turned to Mom. She spoke up softly from the couch just next to his bed. “Is everything OK?” I walked over to her, resting my hand on her shoulder, and whispered, “Yes, no change since last night.” I noticed the barely audible piano music was still playing on my phone. Classical music and piano solos were supposed to be calming. So, I faithfully played the music, hoping it would be a source of peace and tranquility in the room. Walking slowly toward his bed, I took his hand in mine and caressed it with a squeeze to let him know I was right next to him. “I love you, Daddy.” How would I even begin to pray for my father, and what would I pray for? I began to recite prayers about life, love, and saying goodbye when I was not reading poems by Rumi, Dad’s favorite poet. It was just Mom and me this morning. Somehow it was peaceful despite what we were facing.

We both knew things were not looking good. It was an unspoken understanding between us. Sleep deprivation had set in after spending three nights at the hospital. But when I thought about how my mother had been at my dad’s side for the last seven months, night and day, in and out of the hospital, I knew there was no room for my fatigue. Perhaps a quick refresh would help. I washed my face and brushed my teeth in the sterile-looking bathroom. After a rapid change of clothes, I ran out to be sure I did not miss a single second of being near Dad. Moving to his side, I placed the oral swab into the small plastic cup, wetting it enough to blot Dad’s lips. Sometimes he would close his mouth when the sponge rubbed against his teeth. But not today. He remained still. Not a single movement. Could I hope and pray for a miracle now? Miracles happen; maybe if I prayed enough, he would open his eyes and begin to smile. Oh, I wanted that more than anything I have ever wanted in my life. “God, can’t we please talk about this? Do you have to take him from us now? I just want him to be OK. He’s not ready to leave us. Please, God.” My tears kept coming as I silently pleaded. There was nothing that would make them go away today.

“Would you like him to get his antibiotics today?” I simply shook my head to confirm we wanted the antibiotics to continue. The nurse whispered with a gentle smile, startling me as he walked in to check my father’s vital signs. He was one of the nurses on the oncology floor. I was unsure which I was drawn to more, his piercing blue eyes or his kind and caring approach each time we needed to make a decision. He straightened Dad’s blankets and fluffed the pillow a little under Dad’s head. Then he took Dad’s hand, felt his pulse, and began counting his breaths, staring at the round clock on the wall just above the whiteboard hanging in front of the bed. Something was different about the whiteboard. The only writing on the board today was the nurse and tech’s name and the date. Nothing was written on the board under “goals for today” or “questions for the doctors.” Nothing to indicate that a change was possible. The whiteboard seemed to suggest there was no miracle on the way.

The nurse looked at me when he noticed that I had been staring at the board. He did not have to say a word. His eyes were telling me the situation was grim. “His heart rate is very high. I can get him just a little more Dilaudid to make his breathing less labored. Would you like me to do that?” I think I muttered, “Yes, please do.” I tried to answer his questions, but my thoughts were racing between what I hoped for and the reality I was facing. But above all else, I just wanted Dad to be comfortable.

We had agreed to continue the antibiotics to prevent his jaundice from appearing. It was strictly a comfort measure for the family, that is. The previous evening, we stopped having him poked with needles in the middle of the night. They had also stopped checking his blood glucose every few hours. No more insulin to poke through his skin, and no more blood thinners injected. He had had enough of all of it. It would be nice not to poke him with needles for at least a day or two. The skin on his legs was starting to look purplish, matching his many bruises from all the needles. His urine was turning an amber color, and there was hardly any of it in the clear bag that rested against the bed. Fluid around his ankles had subsided a little, but his toes still looked swollen. I picked up a washcloth, gently rubbing it on his head to freshen him up. I went over his eyes softly and wiped the rest of his face—anything to stimulate movement. The round table, now holding lab reports we used to have the staff print for us daily caught my eye. No reports were printed this morning. My thoughts were interrupted again when I noticed my mom had left and was returning to the room.

She handed me a fresh cup of coffee. I gulped, confirming it was the same bad coffee I had the day before. Then I thanked Mom for bringing me caffeine to help me through the day. “How did we get to this point?” I thought about the question still haunting me.

I started to replay the tape in my head. Everything happened so quickly, yet it had been seven long months. I was barely speaking with my younger sister and avoiding my older sister altogether. Instead of coming together, the family had fallen apart. It was just the opposite of what Dad had wished when he was diagnosed. He would have wanted us all to care for each other, be kind to one another, respect each other’s opinions, and love each other unconditionally. None of that was the case now. I wondered if Dad had heard the family discussions in the room, ranging from his chemo to a possible secondary diagnosis and brain surgery. We even argued over plant-based food instead of traditional Persian meals just after his diagnosis.

Had he been conscious enough to hear our explosive arguments and the many hurtful exchanges in the last few days? What would Dad have said if he could muster up enough energy? Knowing what he knew now, what did Dad think about the treatment approach and how far he would be willing to go? Between hospitalizations, when he was at home and feeling better, Dad was aware of the unpleasant friction between family members. He asked my sister if she could please forgive and forget whatever had happened between us before his last hospital admission in February. I felt bad for letting things get to this point with my siblings, but the more I tried, the more I sank into the quagmire of anger and despair, which fed into the negative energy that flowed between us.

Reflection on the events leading up to today interrupted my reading of Rumi. The replay of events started in my head. Precisely seven days prior, my father’s condition took a turn for the worse. We had a gastroenterology consult at my sister’s request to find out if we may be able to get rid of the many pockets of infection on my father’s liver, which was still unresponsive to antibiotics. A few days before the consultation, doctors drained infectious fluid from his abdomen to relieve some of the pressure, which appeared to be one of the sources of Dad’s discomfort. I did not realize that the procedure was an additional source of discomfort.

This intervention seemed reasonable at the time. Looking back, that was another unnecessary procedure that only hurt my father. The fluid was sent to the lab to identify the bacteria. That evening, when I returned to my parents’ home from the hospital to get some sleep, my mother called me. She was frantic, and it took me a second to understand what she was saying. When she calmed down a bit, she told me that one of the hospitalists came by to ask to speak to the family. Since she did not quite trust her ability to understand all the technical terms, she wanted him to talk to one of us girls.

My older sister had just left town for an important business meeting the next day. She had instructed me to call her only in case of an emergency. It was a Thursday, and she reluctantly let me take her to the airport. My mom did not want to bother my sister since it was late, and she had an early morning the next day.

That is how I ended up taking the call that was a crushing blow to all our hopes. I agreed to speak with the doctor, and Mom put him on the speaker. I listened intently as he nervously delivered the...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	14.3.2023
Vorwort	Raymond Aaron
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Gesundheit / Leben / Psychologie ► Krankheiten / Heilverfahren
ISBN-10	1-77277-545-2 / 1772775452
ISBN-13	978-1-77277-545-7 / 9781772775457

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