"Death is a Medical Decision," said someone at the Veterans Administration

     "You have to call the V.A. and have their meat wagon come and pick him up. Or else you will charged for the cremation," said one friend who is a vet.

     "The Veterans Administration pays for all the funeral costs," said another vet friend.

     "Medicaid buried John 'for free.' " said a third [non-vet] friend. 
     "Was John a vet?"
     "No."


     I was stick-a-fork-in-me done. I called the area veterans hospital. "What do I do with my father's dead body after he dies?" I asked the operator. She transferred me to a department called DETAILS. I left a voice mail. No one returned my call. Ever. To date.

     I called the veterans hospital several days later. "I need the number for the county patient advocate for the vets," I told the operator. She transferred me to the patient advocacy office. The person who answered that phone did not know there was an advocate in this county. "Hold on." I was transferred back to the operator who originally had transferred me to the patient advocacy office. Neither the operator nor myself knew why I'd been transferred back to her.

     I called an acquaintance. "Here's the office of the aging's phone number. You can reach the local county patient advocate through them."

     I called the county office of the aging. The lady answering the phone didn't know what I was talking about.

     I called the veteran's administration hospital back. I asked for their patient advocate. She called me back within ten minutes. "Dad's receiving hospice services," I said. "How do I get him buried?" She interrupted me, "Death is a medical decision. You need to arrange all of that with the V.A. social worker in... ." Cripes! 

     The V.A. did not have a contract with the local hospice. I knew this because the local hospice people had told me that when Dad signed himself up for hospice. Ergo, I had figured that no veterans social worker in the county was needed to approve these arrangements. But the patient advocate at the hospital did not stop talking long enough for me to get that sentence out. I tried several times. I gave up.

     "The county V.A. social worker can be reached through the V.A. primary care office in the county," she finished finally. My eyes filled up with tears. I knew I would be losing it shortly. "You mean the one at the V.A. primary care doctor's office that never calls me back?" I asked. "I'll transfer you to the head of social work here at the hospital. She'll help you."

     I left a voice mail for the head of social work.

     I lost it. Totally. I could not control the tears. How could I have been so stupid not to know that death is a medical decision?!? I've lived my whole life not knowing that. Wow.

     I cried for my father. I cried for all of my frustration that I've had dealing with other people during the course of his Lewy Body Dementia. I cried for his life, for everything that he had lost because of his failing brain. I cried for his pain and mine. I gasped for air. Then I called information for the number of an area funeral home.

     The guy from information swore there was no such funeral home in the area. "Any funeral home," I told him. I started to cry again. I hung up. Not only was I clueless. So was almost everyone else I had managed to rouse up on the telephone. I began wondering if I would have to transport my dad's imminent corpse to the veterans hospital myself for cremation. I could't afford to pay for his funeral. Or, I'd have to take out a bank loan to do so.

     Overcome by hysteria, I called two friends from another state. They were able to find the phone number I needed and gave it to me.

     I called the funeral home. The owner answered the phone. He knew what to do. He'd done it before for other dead veterans. 


     Later, I discovered that my dad did indeed have enough money in his bank account to cover his funeral expenses. This was not because he had set aside this money. [His dementia had rendered him determined to give every penny of any money he had or received to an ex-wife who he believed-- and still believes-- is "starving."]. The money was there because he had become unable to manage his own checking account. He simply didn't know that the money existed.

     The funeral home owner called me back. "I will need your Dad's army discharge papers in order to have him buried at the national veterans cemetery." I took a deep breath before answering. "I don't have them. I told you his ex-wife took everything." But it turned out okay after all. The funeral home owner would contact the county veterans patient advocate to obtain a copy of the discharge papers.

     I stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed into a deep sleep. All of this pre-death mourning is exhausting. My dad has been sleeping more because he is dying soon. I've been sleeping more because I am emotionally spent.

sapphoq on life says: Professional people everywhere, when dealing with overwrought family members of dying dementia patients, I beg of you to please don't ever tell any of us "death is a medical decision." It just isn't. Really.