My main concern was how to tell Mom. Hospice means approaching death to most people. And, of course, that's what they do. They help people die naturally, but without pain. However, to tell my mother that Dad was going on hospice would be hard. I even asked the social worker if we could "skip that part!" I can't believe I asked that, but I wanted to spare my mother the emotional pain of knowing that dad was dying. I meant well, but I think I was trying to spare myself more emotional pain, as well.
One of the great things about hospice is that they've heard it all before. They didn't make me feel silly or foolish. They gently, but firmly, said no. They would tell Mom why they were there, and they would help her cope.
Dad had been at Rosewood for around a decade – maybe more. The time is a blur, in some ways. Years into his stay, my mom joined him. She, too, suffered from dementia, though it was a slow growing, more "normal" kind (if one can describe dementia as normal). She also fell frequently, as she had severe arthritis pain. She was frail, and only about 85 pounds.
What would this do to her – knowing that Dad was dying? Mom and Dad had been in separate, private rooms on the same floor, for years. We felt that these last months, they should be together, as Mom didn't have the strength – mental or physical – to keep going to visit Dad, in his room. So they became roommates again, after all those years.
The hospice social worker told me that their pastor would visit with Mom. That she had to be told about Dad. That they worked with this all the time. Mom would be sad, but she would be okay. I was really worried, especially since Mom's dementia kept her from remembering new information.