Prissy Smith, Public Health Nurse

I was admitted to the hospital but had to stay in the emergency department for two days to wait for an available bed.  Finally a bed became available on an off service unit which means a specialized unit for a a specific diagnosis or disorder other than the one I have.  I was admitted to a gynaecology unit and I was a neurological or medical.  I waited on this off service unit for three weeks for an appropriate bed to become available.

During the early days of my hospitalization I noticed that my condition continued to deteriorate.  I found that I could no longer stand on my own so I was glad to be in the hospital.  The unit I was on was a little short on insight into care necessary for a patient that had immobility problems.  I know what I needed though, and I asked for a wheelchair and a commode to be positioned by my bed.  I put my wheelchair on the right side of my bed and the commode on the left.  I had an over bed table as well on the right side and so getting into my wheelchair became an exercise of moving my over bed table out of the way far enough that I could get from my bed into my wheelchair.

Getting onto the commode from my bed was frightful as the only thing working by now was my arms.  I pulled myself up to a sitting position using the bed side rail.  Then I  widdled my way to sit on the edge of my bed then grabbed the arms on the commode, managed my clothing, and swung my rear end around so that it was positioned to plunk my butt down all in one motion.  If I was not positioned correctly to the commode or the breaks on the commode were not on I risked falling to the floor.  Being incontenent I had to do this maneuver quickly.  Often I would not make it and the nurses would have to change the sheets on the bed and mop the piddle on the floor.

Using the commode was terribly embarrassing.  There were three other patients in the room, the closest right beside me.  Although there was a curtain that separated us, my commode was right beside my neighbours night stand and it was embarrassing to piddle on the commode knowing how close I was to my neighbour .  The hospital staff were not careful to leave my carefully positioned wheelchair and commode in place.  If the commode got in the way of the gaggle of physicians making rounds, they would move it and not put it back when they left.  They would also leave the drapes separating the beds open.  I spent my whole day getting my commode back in place and applying the brakes on it, pulling the drapes back in place to give me the illusion that I had personal space, and going for multiple tests.

My immediate neighbour was crabby and her interaction with any one was aggressive.  She was not gracious to me.  My over bed table became full of things.  I was not hoarding things but because I could not walk and getting into my wheelchair was frightful and laborious I did not throw empty containers in the garbage  which could not be placed within reach because of the placement of the wheelchair and the over bed table.  I completely lost my appetite so often when dietary staff picked up my meal trays, they would leave a juice or a yogurt container on the table.  I also had some magazines that my sisters brought me, tissues, glass cleaner and a sundry of other things on the table and it became cluttered.  The policy of the hospital was that if there was no room on the over bed table to place the meal trays, dietary did not leave the meals.  On one occasion I was away from my room to have a X-ray in the radiology department.  When I got back every one was eating lunch.  I asked my neighbour where my lunch tray was.  "They didn't leave it because your over bed table is dirty" she said.  "Dirty?" I questioned myself.  It was cluttered, not dirty.  Interesting choice of words but then she was there when the public health nurse came in with documents declaring my house condemned.

The public health nurse came through the door, came straight to my bed and asked me if I was Autumn Balm (my pen name).  I was afraid to say I was.  She looked stern.  Her brows were furrowed and her eyes were so squinted that I could hardly see her pupils.  Deep wrinkles appeared on each side of the bridge of her nose.  Her lips were pursed hiding the pink of her lips.  I could not hide since my name was on the end of my bed  and I could not run so I said that I was who she was looking for.

"I am Prissy Smith", she said (not her real name but that is what I heard), "and I have documents for you to sign officially designating your house as condemned."

"Oh yes, I've been expecting you" as I recalled that my sisters told me she would be coming.  My sisters were the ones that called Public Health.

She found a place on my overbid table to place the papers and she pointed to where she wanted me to sign.  I borrowed her pen and complied.  She then signed her name as a witness and dated the document then turned around and walked away.

I could understand her disgust with the condition of the house and at first I excused her harsh interaction with me. "I deserved being treated this way" I thought.  But I realized I was left feeling hurt and discarded by her.  Then I concluded that she was a nurse and should have been at least professional if not compassionate with me.  If it is in the public health mandate to "deal" with people like me they should have the education to the point of understanding hoarding so they see hoarders as real people.  Be disquested with my house, not me I thought.  I thought of the hymn that I've sung at church called "He looked Beyond My Fault and Saw My Need".  My only resolve with this hostile interaction is the vision of the public health nurse as an old person with crevices on each side of the bridge on her nose and craters on her upper lip like a child would draw as rays around the sun which is entirely possible if she keeps that face on.