Dear Jacquie
Christmas at Diana's was great. Using the walker proved successful to get around. It was curious to me why I could not walk and yet if I hung onto a walker I could. Even though my hands were numb, pushing my upper body weight through my arms onto my hands which were placed on the walker worked.
Diana's huge house was laden with lights and Christmas decorations. I felt a spark in my heart and it felt like Christmas, seeing the lights and enjoying a big turkey dinner with my family. I only spent two hours there because Trisha suddenly said it was time to go. I protested somewhat telling Trisha I was not ready to leave but her decision remained firm.
"Wait," Diana said, "I have a gift for Autumn."
My gift from Diana was brilliant. She gave me a cell phone so I could contact people from my hospital bed. The cell phone was one that required purchased minutes and one hundred minutes came with the phone. After I opened my gift, Trisha let her family know it was time to go and we gathered to say out goodbyes to everyone still partying and we left. Driving back to the city I was aware of how much Trisha and Blair went out of their way and sacrificed their Christmas for me. Taking me to Diana's added two hours to their trip. They live on the edge of the city and the hospital was smack in the middle. They had to travel through the city each way when they didn't have to if they did not pick me up.
I thanked Trisha for taking me to Diana's when she got me back to my room and then she left. I found Joan in her bed. The television was on the channel I had left it, but she she was not watching it. She was sleeping. A nurse raised the head of my bed and helped me transfer from the wheelchair into the bed. Joan woke up and greeted me with a "Hi."
"Where did you go?" she asked.
I went to my sister's for Christmas" I answered. "Did you family come to see you. "
"I don't know" she said, "maybe."
Again I got a glimpse of Joan's memory and cognitive function. " I would use my therapeutic skills in conversing with the cognitively impaired I had training for, to make Joan's experience as my roommate as good as possible" I thought.
"Do you like this channel on the television?" I asked.
"Yes, I like to watch this" she replied and then went back to sleep. I took my night time meds and fell asleep with the television on.
***
Quickly the day of the family meeting arrived. A social worker that had been assigned to my case prepared me for the meeting, explaining it was to decide what to do with my house. Diana came up to my room and took me by wheelchair to a room in the Social Work Department. I felt like a criminal on my way to attend my sentencing. I knew what my criminal acts were. I was not a thief, murderer, embezzler, or an abuser, but a hoarder, a crime that would follow me the rest of my life. I am a hoarder, I committed a hoard and now I am about to be faced with the consequences.
From a hoarder's perspective hoarding is not a problem until some one else witnesses the hoard. I always had hope by thinking that I will deal with things tomorrow. Then, when someone else witnesses the devastation, the secret is out, it comes to light and the guilt. shame and self deformation begins as well as the pressure to deal with it. My hoard was witnessed first by my sister when she picked me up to go to the hospital. At that point I became a hoarder.
There were other witnesses to testify to what I had done. Witnesses that saw the condition of my house. and it turned out that there were more than I liked. I found out later that my dad and my brother Jim had also gone into my house. I was very embarrassed and mortified that anyone would see my hoard. I liken it to those dreams I've had where I was naked in public. I hated myself for destroying my house.
As I entered the meeting room I was shocked to see the witnesses that had come for my sentencing. Trisha, Blair, Diana and her husband Karl. The attendance of my sisters was not surprising but I had not anticipated that their husbands would be there. To this day I'm not sure if my brother's-in-law were there for my sake or just for the sake of their wives, my sisters. It was understandable that they would be there to oversee their wives interests as it was my sisters who were left with the clean up of my crime.
The social worker chaired the meeting and started the meeting with the general meeting etiquette.
"We are all here out of concern for Autumn and to determine what needs to done for a positive future for her" was her introduction. Then addressing me she said "We don't really know what level of function you will regain, or what level of independence will be restored which will determine whether you will need assisted facility living. "Regardless" she went on "we need to start by addressing your house. What are your thoughts about your house?"
"I would like to clean it and continue to live there." I replied.
The social worker then asked, which I'm sure my family was thinking, "How are you going to do that?"
I thought for a minute and could not come up with any solution to cleaning my house and before I could speak Diana reported that she check cleaning services and got estimates on how much it would cost to clean the house out. "It will cost minimally ten thousand dollars to clean your house and that does not include dealing with the mold and mice."
"I'd like to wait until I know how much better I get and If I'm able I'll do it myself." I said.
"Diana quickly pointed out, "It will take a while to determine how well you get and you don't know if you will. Meanwhile you can't pay the mortgage."
"I can tap into the mortgage insurance with my disability." I said reaching for anything that would give me time to clean it out myself.
"You lived there ten years and in that time you let it get the way it is and never did anything to clean it up" Diana said. "In fact a couple of times we came over and cleaned up your house entirely and you did not maintain in, you let it get back the same way, even worse." she said sternly.
The social worker then addressed my family. "What do your folks see happening."
Blair suggested that my house could be sold for the property value, house unseen. "I know a real estate agent that would do that for us."
Trisha implored with me, "Just think how it would feel to get a fresh start and leave all that mess, that burden behind. You could live a new life; the life you used to have when you had friends and family over, do your crafts; all the things you are good at and used to do."
I thought about how good it would feel to start over with a clean slate but my need to undo what I had done was strong. I felt I needed to clean up my mess. "No," I said" I want to do anything necessary to clean up my house."
Just then Blair stood up and bolted for the door while saying, "I'm wasting my time here."
"Oh my gosh" I thought. Blair is always so easy going and I had never seen him so stern.
I didn't want to disappoint Blair so before he reached the door I hollered "Wait! How would selling my house work." I was glad to see him return to his chair and sit down.
"I can call the real estate agent, find out the details and get back to you." Blair said "I think this is your only course of action, and the best for you. So do you you want me to call the agent?" he asked.
And so there it was. The moment that I had to decide what to do about the results of my ten years of hoarding. It wasn't a sentence after all, it was my decision.
"Yes", I answered Blair, "see what your real estate agent can do" I felt like I had no other choice but to go with what my family wanted. I knew if I did not say yes to selling my house that my family would not continue to help me. Why would they if I chose not to do what seemed to be the only recourse. The social worker then ended the meeting by summarizing that Blair would call his agent and report back to me.
Blair gave me a big hug and said "you have made the right decision and now you can start fresh".
Trisha also gave me a big hug and said "I am excited for you for your future".
Following the meeting Diana then took me to the hospital cafeteria for coffee. We talked about how good my decision to sell my house was. I did feel a sense of relief. Thinking about dealing with that house was an overwhelming burden on me and now I don't have to face it. When I left my house to go to the hospital I didn't realize I would not have to come back and face what I had done. I destroyed my house and got to just walk away from it.
Walking away from my house however did not disperse my guilt. Guilt that does not lead to knowledge only leads to the continuation of things the way they are; a protection for changelessness. (Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches) I said yes to selling my house but only because I was cornered, pressed by my family and not because I had gained any understanding as to why I hoard. Therefore at that point I was no further ahead in my psychological healing. It was like I had shot some one with a gun and the courts said I could walk away if I sold the gun to some one else. No need to look at self defence or insanity or any reason why I had shot someone. Just sell the gun and walk away. My family felt like the problem was being dealt with, but my guild remained.
Thursday, 28 April 2016
Monday, 18 April 2016
Christmas and Cartoons
To Jacquie;
My move by stretcher to the medical unit in the hospital took place two days before Christmas. The hospital was 60 years old and four additions had been constructed on it over the years. As a result, the floors of each addition did not match. The main floor of the additions was the second floor of the original building. It is bad enough laying on a stretcher where your natural view is the ceiling and you get dizzy watching ceiling tiles whizzing by, then to add to the precarious transfer to my new hospital unit, was random turns down hallways and many elevator rides up one floor, then after travelling a maze of hallways, down another elevator. I felt like I was on a very, very slow roller coaster ride.
Finally I arrived to the medical unit where I would end up spending five months. Upon approaching the unit, double doors opened to a long wide hallway. My first impression of the unit was that I had entered a long storage closet with people mingling around the stored items. My room was at the very end of the unit so I was able to observe everything from the beginning to the end of the hallway as I journeyed through it. No wall could be seen because of things parked against them on both sides except for the nursing unit in the middle of the hallway. Empty hospital beds, linen carts, dining tray carts, physical therapy euipment, chairs and housekeeping carts lined both sides of the hallway.
The unit reminded me of a residential street where cars are parked on both sides. When driving down this street if you are faced with an oncoming vehicle, you had to pull over in whatever space you could find to allow the oncoming car to pass. When someone in a wheelchair approached my stretcher, they had to duck into a patient room doorway to allow me to pass.
Whenever I feel I have no direct route to escape or get out of somewhere I feel cluster phobic. Even though I hoarded myself into a small living space at home, here I felt cluserphobic in this cluttered hallway. Florence Nightingale, the mother of modern nursing even identified that "the object and color in the materials around us actually have a physical effect on us, on how we feel. Francine Jay, a minimalist wrote "Your home is living space, not storage space.” This unit looked like a storage space and was dismal. Experiencing it was overwhelming and chaotic to the soul and left me feeling alarmed that I would living here.
There were many hospital uniformed people circling the nursing desk, and in a room behind it. There were chairs parked against the opposite wall from the unit nursing desk. The chairs were occupied by patients that slept with their neck resting on their chest with a soaked hospital gown from drooling, patients that would reach out to you as you passed by squeeling "help me", patients that fiddled with an donned bib or a button on their shirt while mumbling repetitive sounds; as well as patients that were alert and and observing everything going on at the nursing desk. There was an occasional bellow from inside patient rooms as I journeyed down the hallway. If a person was to think of the most indignant environment for those poor souls, this would be it. They were deliberately placed there on display and living the indignity.
I arrived at my room and noticed a young woman occupying the bed closest to the door. Nursing staff were busily around her, following admission procedures as she was just admitted and arrived in the room just slightly before me. I noticed the television attached high on the wall placed in the middle of the two beds in the room. It was connected as it was televising a channel. I waited a while in my bed not knowing what I was expecting to happen next. Finally a nurse that poked her head through the curtain encircling my roommate and said "some one would be with you shorty." I didn't really care about anything other than how I was going to get access to the television.
Finally a nurse came to my bed and told me that they were short staffed. She said "I can start your admission to the unit but someone on the next shift wold have to finish it." I replied "Okay, but can you tell me how I can access the television." She said that there was only one television per room and that my roommate had paid for it for a week so she had the remote control. "Bugger" I thought to myself. Now what am I going to do. My favourite sport State and National championships were gong to be televised and I needed to watch them. I always followed this sport. I had my favorite teams and teams I hated. I wanted to see my favorite teams win, and more so, wanted to see the teams I hated loose."I will figure this out", I thought. I just needed time to meet my roommate and figure out how the the protocols surrounding access to the television worked.
The curtain between my roommate and myself remained pulled separating the two beds in our room so I could not see her. The nurses left and I could hear her visitors and figured out that she had a father and two daughters there. Eventually they left but the curtain remained pulled and she remained silent. I hoped that a nurse would come to finish my admission process because I needed a commode by my bed; either that or assistance to the washroom. My dinner meal tray arrived which I did not attend to. It was difficult to eat without the head of my bed raised and I had no interest in any input when I desperately had to deal with output.
The dining staff came to take the dinner tray. They noticed it was no touched and asked me if I wanted it left to eat later. I was not interested in that so I told them to take it. Then finally a nurse came and finished admitting me to the unit and arranged for a commode to be placed beside my bed. The nurse got my medication dispersement in place. The commode arrived and with major jostling
between my bedside table and my roommate's bedside table it was placed as good as possible for me to transfer onto it. The curtain remained pulled for the remainder of the day so I could not introduce my self to my roommate and get her on board with sharing the television remote. I accepted defeat in the battle of the television for the first day, took my bed time meds and decided to drift off to sleep.
As I was falling asleep my thoughts mingled around in my mind about my illness, where I was, and wondering if I would get better. "Would I be able to walk again?" I wondered. My thoughts then shifted to things I could be thankful for. At least my brain and thoughts were clear, and I still have perfect use of my hands. If I had to, I would use a wheelchair for mobility and get a job in my field at a management level using by intellectual skills and hand function for typing emails and documents.
The next morning I woke to the cartoons on the television. I do not have any children who watched television, so these cartoons were new to me. Cartoon after cartoon was televised and then I realized my roommate had the television programmed to the cartoon channel. The curtain was still drawn between us so I had no access to my roommate or the television remote control. I watched the csartoons and found them very boring. I figured out the plot formula that was used for cartoons; the characters got into some kind of dilemma and a hero always saved the day. Throughout the story there was a lot of repetition; too much for me. Play out one scenario and I get it. No need to repeat the same scenario with different situations before the hero saves the day. The cartoons; Ben 10, Hello Kitty, Clarence, Squirrel Boy, Puff Girls etc. were all aliens to me. The only saviour of the channel was the occasion refreshing episode of Peanuts and Calliou.
As the day progressed, something happened that was far more serious than having to watch cartoons. My left hand started to tingle and before a nurse attended to me so I could report it, my right hand began to tingle. And there it was. Just as quick as a minute, I lost function of both hands. Now, all four limbs were effected by some mysterious disease. I could not walk and now I cannot write or eat. When I tried to pick up a pen or utensil from my overbid table, my hand fell flat on the surface and The scenario of my illness repeated itself, first with my legs then again with my hands. I wondered if there was a hero to save me.
Devistated by the new deterioration of my body, my hands, I refocused my thoughts to my pass to attend Christmas at my sisters which I looked forward to. Diane has Christmas every year for the whole family; my other sister Trisha and her family, and my two brothers James and Carl and their families. Christmas is my favourite time of the year and I put days of effort into it prior to Christmas Day. In fact, getting ready for Christmas Day was the part of the season I most enjoyed. I put a lot of thought into what gifts I will give and spend hours wrapping them. My gift wrapping is so eloquent that people don't want to open them. This Christmas though getting to my sisters for dinner is all I will experience of the magical spirit.
My mind when to what I would be doing if I was not in the hospital. Part of the pre-Christmas preparations I really enjoy is making Christmas decorations. I end up giving them away because they are wasted in the clutter of my house. One year I decorated Trisha, my sister's place. I took over all my decorations including, garland, pine cones, glittered pics, spray paint, faux snow and ribbon. I took over so much that the decorations overtook their home. It got late in the day and although I had decorated much of their house, there was still a lot of decorations yet to be used. I never do anything fast. Everything I do requires much thought and planning. I could tell Trisha's husband Blair was getting agitated and wanted things to wind down so he could go to bed. I moved all the decorations that were not used into the garage to be sorted and bagged, so they could go to bed. I would then quietly leave and lock the doors behind me.
While I was sorting the decorations in their garage, I remember the sick feeling in my stomach and how I felt well out of place. Something I could do to for my sister ended up being a burden on them. If I had taken just enough decorations to do her stair railing and maybe a wreath, that would have been good enough. Instead though, I took all my decorations I had from my house in an attempt to move that part of my hoard where it could be used. While I was decorating Trisha asked me why I didn't put this much effort to decorate at my place but I could not tell her there was no place in my house to work on decorating never mind having a place to display the Christmas my masterpieces. I accumulate to decorate, but don't decorate.
My mind came back to reality as I focused on the Cartoons on the television and then thought about things that needed to be done for me to go out on my pass for Christmas Day. Trisha's family would pick me up and take me to Diane's home which was in a rural area an hours drive from the city. I was given the option of a day pass where I had to be back by eight in the evening or an over night pass. The nursing staff needed to know so they could dispense and give me the medications for the period of time I would be away from the hospital. I knew I would be back Christmas evening but eight o'clock meant that I had to leave Diane's at seven. Considering the early check in time for the day pass, I told them I wanted an overnight pass. That way they would not be expecting me until the next day and I could come back as late as I wanted. Good planning I thought, and things were in place for tomorrow, Christmas Day.
Finally the curtain between me and my roommate was pulled open. I looked over to the very tall, thin and beautiful woman. Our eyes met and I said "Hi, my name is Autumn" She replied that her name was Joan. I got right down to my most pressing matter, the control of the television. I asked her if she minded if we switched the channel from something other than the cartoon channel. She began to look for the remote control on her overbid table and could not find it. "I don't know where it is" she said. I suggested to her that she look for it in her bed. She felt under her pillow and under her covers. Finally she found it between her blanket and sheets. She looked at it and pushed some buttons which did nothing to the television. "You can have it" she said "I don't know how to use it. I could not reach it as there was too much room between out beds so I pushed my overbid table over to her. She placed the remote control on the table and I wheeled it back to me. "I have it" I thought to myself but at that point I realized that my roommate was dependant on others for decisions. I would always make sure the television was on a channel she agreed with I thought. I would help her as much as I could I pledged to myself , and that was the beginning of a survival relationship for both of us in that horrid hospital unit.
The next day was Christmas Day. I woke up with a little spark in my heart. It was short lived as the vampire (the Laboratory technician) arrived to poke me and take some blood. My arms were like a pin cushion. I had been poked daily along with a couple of I.V.s that by now had been removed. I had become used to these pokes. "Merry Christmas" I said to him,, "to bad you have to work today. So my day began with a poke and then I said greeted Joan with "Merry Christmas." " Is it Christmas" she asked. "Yes, " I replied. I told her that I was going out to my sisters and relayed to her that I hoped her daughters came to see her. "Maybe" she said in a way that seemed like she didn't know what to expect that day.
The nursing staff provided a walker for me to use at Dians's and a wheelchair for Trisha to use to get me to the front entrance of the hospital to the vehicle, and from the vehicle into Diane's house. The nurse told me to check at the nursing desk before I left and there she would give me the medications I needed for that day. Things seemed be be in place for my day out until I told the nurse I had diarrhea earlier that morning. Big mistake. She told me I could not go out until I could produce a stool specimen to test for c-diff, a very contagious bacteria. My sister would be there soon to pick me up so I needed to get this done in a hurry. Producing a stool specimen however, proved to be difficult. There was nothing to produce. I was on the commode and grunted and groaned and pushed so hard I almost lost my eyeballs. My sister arrived and had to wait. The nursing staff was pretty firm about me producing a specimen before I could go out. After looking forward to this so much and now it could be twarted by the fact that I could not poop.
After the nurse saw me try as hard as I could to provide them the specimen she told me that they would over look the hospital policy and that I could go. "GREAT." I thought with relief. My nurse transferred me into my wheelchair and I rolled my walker in front of me as Trisha pushed me in the wheelchair. "We have to stop at the desk for my meds" I informed Trisha. So stopped at the desk we did. Trisha was right at the desk and she left me in my wheelchair in the middle of the hall. Trisha reported that she was taking me out. "She has an overnight pass?" the nurse asked Trisha to confirm the details. "No" Trisha said, "She will be back tonight. I tried to get Trisha's attention to explain to her why I had said it would be an overnight pass even though I would be back tonight to allow me to get back later. I could not get Trisha's attention as her tone of speaking to the nurse became louder and more firm. "She will be back tonight" she said. Finally I spoke up loud enough so the nurse could hear me. "Yes," I said, " It will be an overnight pass". Trisha threw up her arms, then looked at me and said, "Whatever, but you will be back tonight".
I felt guilty about the altercation between the nurse and Trisha and then between Trisha and myself. The guilt was not because I was dishonest with the nurse about the length of my pass, but because I know why Trisha was so firm about me coming back to the hospital that night. I was because I had overstayed my welcome many times at her place including the day I decorated her home with Christmas decorations. I had a habit of not wanting to go home because I knew what I would be going home to and I was avoiding that. Trisha did not want me ending up at her place overnight. I felt like a victim because Trisha did not allow me my voice in the matter without questioning my decision. and I felt guilty because I knew why Trisha did what she did. And in the end I thought, "what would it matter if I stayed overnight to extend my Christmas experience and that hurt me. The nurse gave Trisha my meds and off we went.
As Trisha pushed me in my wheelchair to the entrance to the hospital, I explained to her why I asked the nursing staff for an overnight pass. Even though she then understood my decision, she remained firm and curt. I think she was a little agitated because she and her family waited for me to poop and held them up. Once in the vehicle with her husband Blair and her kids, I felt better. Blair was always cheerful and her kids while playing on some sort of electronic games, seemed happy to see me.
It felt good to experience fresh air, even though it was cold. I love cold air as it seems to kiss my cheeks leaving behind redness as if it was lipstick. I was enjoying the country scenery on the way to Diana's; the bright winter sun dancing off the thick quilt of snow on the ground and the occasional Christmas lights when we would pass farms. Then Trisha informed me about a family meeting that was going to happen after the Christmas season. She said that Diana and herself would be there. Not knowing exactly why the meeting was planned, I said "It will be good to firm up some decisions about my future". I knew decisions would be made as that is what meetings are for, communication and making decisions. Trisha replied "Oh, I don't think you will be happy with how it will go" still sounding firm and curt. At that point I didn't want to think about it. This was Christmas Day and I was going to enjoy it.
My move by stretcher to the medical unit in the hospital took place two days before Christmas. The hospital was 60 years old and four additions had been constructed on it over the years. As a result, the floors of each addition did not match. The main floor of the additions was the second floor of the original building. It is bad enough laying on a stretcher where your natural view is the ceiling and you get dizzy watching ceiling tiles whizzing by, then to add to the precarious transfer to my new hospital unit, was random turns down hallways and many elevator rides up one floor, then after travelling a maze of hallways, down another elevator. I felt like I was on a very, very slow roller coaster ride.
Finally I arrived to the medical unit where I would end up spending five months. Upon approaching the unit, double doors opened to a long wide hallway. My first impression of the unit was that I had entered a long storage closet with people mingling around the stored items. My room was at the very end of the unit so I was able to observe everything from the beginning to the end of the hallway as I journeyed through it. No wall could be seen because of things parked against them on both sides except for the nursing unit in the middle of the hallway. Empty hospital beds, linen carts, dining tray carts, physical therapy euipment, chairs and housekeeping carts lined both sides of the hallway.
The unit reminded me of a residential street where cars are parked on both sides. When driving down this street if you are faced with an oncoming vehicle, you had to pull over in whatever space you could find to allow the oncoming car to pass. When someone in a wheelchair approached my stretcher, they had to duck into a patient room doorway to allow me to pass.
Whenever I feel I have no direct route to escape or get out of somewhere I feel cluster phobic. Even though I hoarded myself into a small living space at home, here I felt cluserphobic in this cluttered hallway. Florence Nightingale, the mother of modern nursing even identified that "the object and color in the materials around us actually have a physical effect on us, on how we feel. Francine Jay, a minimalist wrote "Your home is living space, not storage space.” This unit looked like a storage space and was dismal. Experiencing it was overwhelming and chaotic to the soul and left me feeling alarmed that I would living here.
There were many hospital uniformed people circling the nursing desk, and in a room behind it. There were chairs parked against the opposite wall from the unit nursing desk. The chairs were occupied by patients that slept with their neck resting on their chest with a soaked hospital gown from drooling, patients that would reach out to you as you passed by squeeling "help me", patients that fiddled with an donned bib or a button on their shirt while mumbling repetitive sounds; as well as patients that were alert and and observing everything going on at the nursing desk. There was an occasional bellow from inside patient rooms as I journeyed down the hallway. If a person was to think of the most indignant environment for those poor souls, this would be it. They were deliberately placed there on display and living the indignity.
I arrived at my room and noticed a young woman occupying the bed closest to the door. Nursing staff were busily around her, following admission procedures as she was just admitted and arrived in the room just slightly before me. I noticed the television attached high on the wall placed in the middle of the two beds in the room. It was connected as it was televising a channel. I waited a while in my bed not knowing what I was expecting to happen next. Finally a nurse that poked her head through the curtain encircling my roommate and said "some one would be with you shorty." I didn't really care about anything other than how I was going to get access to the television.
Finally a nurse came to my bed and told me that they were short staffed. She said "I can start your admission to the unit but someone on the next shift wold have to finish it." I replied "Okay, but can you tell me how I can access the television." She said that there was only one television per room and that my roommate had paid for it for a week so she had the remote control. "Bugger" I thought to myself. Now what am I going to do. My favourite sport State and National championships were gong to be televised and I needed to watch them. I always followed this sport. I had my favorite teams and teams I hated. I wanted to see my favorite teams win, and more so, wanted to see the teams I hated loose."I will figure this out", I thought. I just needed time to meet my roommate and figure out how the the protocols surrounding access to the television worked.
The curtain between my roommate and myself remained pulled separating the two beds in our room so I could not see her. The nurses left and I could hear her visitors and figured out that she had a father and two daughters there. Eventually they left but the curtain remained pulled and she remained silent. I hoped that a nurse would come to finish my admission process because I needed a commode by my bed; either that or assistance to the washroom. My dinner meal tray arrived which I did not attend to. It was difficult to eat without the head of my bed raised and I had no interest in any input when I desperately had to deal with output.
The dining staff came to take the dinner tray. They noticed it was no touched and asked me if I wanted it left to eat later. I was not interested in that so I told them to take it. Then finally a nurse came and finished admitting me to the unit and arranged for a commode to be placed beside my bed. The nurse got my medication dispersement in place. The commode arrived and with major jostling
between my bedside table and my roommate's bedside table it was placed as good as possible for me to transfer onto it. The curtain remained pulled for the remainder of the day so I could not introduce my self to my roommate and get her on board with sharing the television remote. I accepted defeat in the battle of the television for the first day, took my bed time meds and decided to drift off to sleep.
As I was falling asleep my thoughts mingled around in my mind about my illness, where I was, and wondering if I would get better. "Would I be able to walk again?" I wondered. My thoughts then shifted to things I could be thankful for. At least my brain and thoughts were clear, and I still have perfect use of my hands. If I had to, I would use a wheelchair for mobility and get a job in my field at a management level using by intellectual skills and hand function for typing emails and documents.
The next morning I woke to the cartoons on the television. I do not have any children who watched television, so these cartoons were new to me. Cartoon after cartoon was televised and then I realized my roommate had the television programmed to the cartoon channel. The curtain was still drawn between us so I had no access to my roommate or the television remote control. I watched the csartoons and found them very boring. I figured out the plot formula that was used for cartoons; the characters got into some kind of dilemma and a hero always saved the day. Throughout the story there was a lot of repetition; too much for me. Play out one scenario and I get it. No need to repeat the same scenario with different situations before the hero saves the day. The cartoons; Ben 10, Hello Kitty, Clarence, Squirrel Boy, Puff Girls etc. were all aliens to me. The only saviour of the channel was the occasion refreshing episode of Peanuts and Calliou.
As the day progressed, something happened that was far more serious than having to watch cartoons. My left hand started to tingle and before a nurse attended to me so I could report it, my right hand began to tingle. And there it was. Just as quick as a minute, I lost function of both hands. Now, all four limbs were effected by some mysterious disease. I could not walk and now I cannot write or eat. When I tried to pick up a pen or utensil from my overbid table, my hand fell flat on the surface and The scenario of my illness repeated itself, first with my legs then again with my hands. I wondered if there was a hero to save me.
Devistated by the new deterioration of my body, my hands, I refocused my thoughts to my pass to attend Christmas at my sisters which I looked forward to. Diane has Christmas every year for the whole family; my other sister Trisha and her family, and my two brothers James and Carl and their families. Christmas is my favourite time of the year and I put days of effort into it prior to Christmas Day. In fact, getting ready for Christmas Day was the part of the season I most enjoyed. I put a lot of thought into what gifts I will give and spend hours wrapping them. My gift wrapping is so eloquent that people don't want to open them. This Christmas though getting to my sisters for dinner is all I will experience of the magical spirit.
My mind when to what I would be doing if I was not in the hospital. Part of the pre-Christmas preparations I really enjoy is making Christmas decorations. I end up giving them away because they are wasted in the clutter of my house. One year I decorated Trisha, my sister's place. I took over all my decorations including, garland, pine cones, glittered pics, spray paint, faux snow and ribbon. I took over so much that the decorations overtook their home. It got late in the day and although I had decorated much of their house, there was still a lot of decorations yet to be used. I never do anything fast. Everything I do requires much thought and planning. I could tell Trisha's husband Blair was getting agitated and wanted things to wind down so he could go to bed. I moved all the decorations that were not used into the garage to be sorted and bagged, so they could go to bed. I would then quietly leave and lock the doors behind me.
While I was sorting the decorations in their garage, I remember the sick feeling in my stomach and how I felt well out of place. Something I could do to for my sister ended up being a burden on them. If I had taken just enough decorations to do her stair railing and maybe a wreath, that would have been good enough. Instead though, I took all my decorations I had from my house in an attempt to move that part of my hoard where it could be used. While I was decorating Trisha asked me why I didn't put this much effort to decorate at my place but I could not tell her there was no place in my house to work on decorating never mind having a place to display the Christmas my masterpieces. I accumulate to decorate, but don't decorate.
My mind came back to reality as I focused on the Cartoons on the television and then thought about things that needed to be done for me to go out on my pass for Christmas Day. Trisha's family would pick me up and take me to Diane's home which was in a rural area an hours drive from the city. I was given the option of a day pass where I had to be back by eight in the evening or an over night pass. The nursing staff needed to know so they could dispense and give me the medications for the period of time I would be away from the hospital. I knew I would be back Christmas evening but eight o'clock meant that I had to leave Diane's at seven. Considering the early check in time for the day pass, I told them I wanted an overnight pass. That way they would not be expecting me until the next day and I could come back as late as I wanted. Good planning I thought, and things were in place for tomorrow, Christmas Day.
Finally the curtain between me and my roommate was pulled open. I looked over to the very tall, thin and beautiful woman. Our eyes met and I said "Hi, my name is Autumn" She replied that her name was Joan. I got right down to my most pressing matter, the control of the television. I asked her if she minded if we switched the channel from something other than the cartoon channel. She began to look for the remote control on her overbid table and could not find it. "I don't know where it is" she said. I suggested to her that she look for it in her bed. She felt under her pillow and under her covers. Finally she found it between her blanket and sheets. She looked at it and pushed some buttons which did nothing to the television. "You can have it" she said "I don't know how to use it. I could not reach it as there was too much room between out beds so I pushed my overbid table over to her. She placed the remote control on the table and I wheeled it back to me. "I have it" I thought to myself but at that point I realized that my roommate was dependant on others for decisions. I would always make sure the television was on a channel she agreed with I thought. I would help her as much as I could I pledged to myself , and that was the beginning of a survival relationship for both of us in that horrid hospital unit.
The next day was Christmas Day. I woke up with a little spark in my heart. It was short lived as the vampire (the Laboratory technician) arrived to poke me and take some blood. My arms were like a pin cushion. I had been poked daily along with a couple of I.V.s that by now had been removed. I had become used to these pokes. "Merry Christmas" I said to him,, "to bad you have to work today. So my day began with a poke and then I said greeted Joan with "Merry Christmas." " Is it Christmas" she asked. "Yes, " I replied. I told her that I was going out to my sisters and relayed to her that I hoped her daughters came to see her. "Maybe" she said in a way that seemed like she didn't know what to expect that day.
The nursing staff provided a walker for me to use at Dians's and a wheelchair for Trisha to use to get me to the front entrance of the hospital to the vehicle, and from the vehicle into Diane's house. The nurse told me to check at the nursing desk before I left and there she would give me the medications I needed for that day. Things seemed be be in place for my day out until I told the nurse I had diarrhea earlier that morning. Big mistake. She told me I could not go out until I could produce a stool specimen to test for c-diff, a very contagious bacteria. My sister would be there soon to pick me up so I needed to get this done in a hurry. Producing a stool specimen however, proved to be difficult. There was nothing to produce. I was on the commode and grunted and groaned and pushed so hard I almost lost my eyeballs. My sister arrived and had to wait. The nursing staff was pretty firm about me producing a specimen before I could go out. After looking forward to this so much and now it could be twarted by the fact that I could not poop.
After the nurse saw me try as hard as I could to provide them the specimen she told me that they would over look the hospital policy and that I could go. "GREAT." I thought with relief. My nurse transferred me into my wheelchair and I rolled my walker in front of me as Trisha pushed me in the wheelchair. "We have to stop at the desk for my meds" I informed Trisha. So stopped at the desk we did. Trisha was right at the desk and she left me in my wheelchair in the middle of the hall. Trisha reported that she was taking me out. "She has an overnight pass?" the nurse asked Trisha to confirm the details. "No" Trisha said, "She will be back tonight. I tried to get Trisha's attention to explain to her why I had said it would be an overnight pass even though I would be back tonight to allow me to get back later. I could not get Trisha's attention as her tone of speaking to the nurse became louder and more firm. "She will be back tonight" she said. Finally I spoke up loud enough so the nurse could hear me. "Yes," I said, " It will be an overnight pass". Trisha threw up her arms, then looked at me and said, "Whatever, but you will be back tonight".
I felt guilty about the altercation between the nurse and Trisha and then between Trisha and myself. The guilt was not because I was dishonest with the nurse about the length of my pass, but because I know why Trisha was so firm about me coming back to the hospital that night. I was because I had overstayed my welcome many times at her place including the day I decorated her home with Christmas decorations. I had a habit of not wanting to go home because I knew what I would be going home to and I was avoiding that. Trisha did not want me ending up at her place overnight. I felt like a victim because Trisha did not allow me my voice in the matter without questioning my decision. and I felt guilty because I knew why Trisha did what she did. And in the end I thought, "what would it matter if I stayed overnight to extend my Christmas experience and that hurt me. The nurse gave Trisha my meds and off we went.
As Trisha pushed me in my wheelchair to the entrance to the hospital, I explained to her why I asked the nursing staff for an overnight pass. Even though she then understood my decision, she remained firm and curt. I think she was a little agitated because she and her family waited for me to poop and held them up. Once in the vehicle with her husband Blair and her kids, I felt better. Blair was always cheerful and her kids while playing on some sort of electronic games, seemed happy to see me.
It felt good to experience fresh air, even though it was cold. I love cold air as it seems to kiss my cheeks leaving behind redness as if it was lipstick. I was enjoying the country scenery on the way to Diana's; the bright winter sun dancing off the thick quilt of snow on the ground and the occasional Christmas lights when we would pass farms. Then Trisha informed me about a family meeting that was going to happen after the Christmas season. She said that Diana and herself would be there. Not knowing exactly why the meeting was planned, I said "It will be good to firm up some decisions about my future". I knew decisions would be made as that is what meetings are for, communication and making decisions. Trisha replied "Oh, I don't think you will be happy with how it will go" still sounding firm and curt. At that point I didn't want to think about it. This was Christmas Day and I was going to enjoy it.
Tuesday, 23 February 2016
The Quilt
Days passed as I remained in the hospital while medical test after test was done to determine a reason for my physical impairments. Because I was well known to be a hoarder, I was tested for the Hantavirus, a virus that is spread my mice. Each morning the physicians would come and tell me that all tests done the previous day was negative. I didn't keep track of all the tests that were done; there was so many, so I couldn't have asked about any particular test result. Each morning after I was told my tests were negative I would just nod to acknowledge that I heard them.
One morning after the physicians had left the room following their announcement to me that they hadn't yet found a reason for my physical condition, one of them ran back to my bedside and whispered to me, "the Hantavirus was negative."
"Thank you", I whispered back as tears stung in my eyes. I think that was the first dignified thing that happened to me since my admission to the hospital. That physician had quietly told me that the the Hantavirus, the "mice disease" was negative so that others in the room didn't know that I had been tested for it. I do not remember that physician's name but I remember her facial expression as she told me to this day. Her cheery expression also showed relief and optimism. That physician got it. She understood that my physical condition was attached to a spirit that also needed care and she was a ray of sunshine.
The nurses did not have much to do for me other than give me medications and change my sheets when needed. They did however help me shower and made sure I did every other day. I would get myself to the shower that was in my room using a wheelchair but I needed help getting on the bath seat which was positioned in the middle of the shower. Before the nurse left me I made sure that the shampoo and soap was within reach. After I showered I would call for the nurse to help me towel dry, then get back into the wheelchair so I could get myself back to my bed.
Combing my hair following my shower was difficult because I did not have creme rinse and my wet hair got knotted. I got each section of hair unknotted and combed through and it was left to dry. My hair is fine and so it dried straight and limp. This is not a hair style that looked good on a round face with a double chin like mine. I felt beyond unattractive. I had some make up in my purse but I did not use it because it got rubbed off on the sheets when I fell asleep and it was easier at night just to put a wet cloth to my face and not worry about getting mascara off. It never dawned on me that I could ask someone to put a few rollers in my hair. I felt I was in an environment where only the things that kept me alive and clean were the things that got consideration to get done.
It was getting close to Christmas and I faced spending it in the hospital. I loved Christmas with family. I came to the resolution though, if others were in the hospital, I could be too. The nursing staff put up Christmas decorations which I critiqued. If I had all the supplies I need and wanted I am the ultimate decorator.
One morning a middle aged woman entered my room and presented me with a new home made quilt. Joy radiated from my heart throughout my body and a smile broke out on my face. "Thank you" I said choking back a lump in my throat. I was a pink quilt and I used it on top of the hospital sheets through the rest of my hospitalization. That quilt provided me with my own personal space boundaries and gave me comfort in more ways than just keeping me warm. It was mine and someone gave it to me through the kindness of their heart. I still have that quilt.
My grandmother would make a home made quilt for everyone in the extended family that got married. I didn't need a quilt but single still at the age of 40 there wasn't much time left for Grandma to make me one. So I asked her to make one for me because it would mean a lot to me. She did make me a quilt and I didn't have to get married to get one.
Grandma's quilt got ripped apart sadly. I left my dogs and the quilt at a boarding kennel when I went to Mexico. I wanted my dogs to be comforted with the blanket that I slept with. It was familiar to them. When I returned and picked up the dogs, the quilt was not being rendered. The kennel keeper apologized and said "sorry, the blanket got chewed up". I asked if there was anything left of it and the kennel keeper went to the back where the dogs are boarded to check. She came back with a piece of fabric about six inches square. I took the remnant and knew it was my fault that it was destroyed. I shouldn't have given taken it to the kennel in the first place.
I like to think my grandmother who had since passed away when I received the prized quilt in the hospital, was thinking of me and looking out for me through the quilt that was given to me. I felt like she hugged me overtime I tucked myself in at night.
Two days before Christmas I got moved to a medical ward and it was a different environment all together.
One morning after the physicians had left the room following their announcement to me that they hadn't yet found a reason for my physical condition, one of them ran back to my bedside and whispered to me, "the Hantavirus was negative."
"Thank you", I whispered back as tears stung in my eyes. I think that was the first dignified thing that happened to me since my admission to the hospital. That physician had quietly told me that the the Hantavirus, the "mice disease" was negative so that others in the room didn't know that I had been tested for it. I do not remember that physician's name but I remember her facial expression as she told me to this day. Her cheery expression also showed relief and optimism. That physician got it. She understood that my physical condition was attached to a spirit that also needed care and she was a ray of sunshine.
The nurses did not have much to do for me other than give me medications and change my sheets when needed. They did however help me shower and made sure I did every other day. I would get myself to the shower that was in my room using a wheelchair but I needed help getting on the bath seat which was positioned in the middle of the shower. Before the nurse left me I made sure that the shampoo and soap was within reach. After I showered I would call for the nurse to help me towel dry, then get back into the wheelchair so I could get myself back to my bed.
Combing my hair following my shower was difficult because I did not have creme rinse and my wet hair got knotted. I got each section of hair unknotted and combed through and it was left to dry. My hair is fine and so it dried straight and limp. This is not a hair style that looked good on a round face with a double chin like mine. I felt beyond unattractive. I had some make up in my purse but I did not use it because it got rubbed off on the sheets when I fell asleep and it was easier at night just to put a wet cloth to my face and not worry about getting mascara off. It never dawned on me that I could ask someone to put a few rollers in my hair. I felt I was in an environment where only the things that kept me alive and clean were the things that got consideration to get done.
It was getting close to Christmas and I faced spending it in the hospital. I loved Christmas with family. I came to the resolution though, if others were in the hospital, I could be too. The nursing staff put up Christmas decorations which I critiqued. If I had all the supplies I need and wanted I am the ultimate decorator.
One morning a middle aged woman entered my room and presented me with a new home made quilt. Joy radiated from my heart throughout my body and a smile broke out on my face. "Thank you" I said choking back a lump in my throat. I was a pink quilt and I used it on top of the hospital sheets through the rest of my hospitalization. That quilt provided me with my own personal space boundaries and gave me comfort in more ways than just keeping me warm. It was mine and someone gave it to me through the kindness of their heart. I still have that quilt.
My grandmother would make a home made quilt for everyone in the extended family that got married. I didn't need a quilt but single still at the age of 40 there wasn't much time left for Grandma to make me one. So I asked her to make one for me because it would mean a lot to me. She did make me a quilt and I didn't have to get married to get one.
Grandma's quilt got ripped apart sadly. I left my dogs and the quilt at a boarding kennel when I went to Mexico. I wanted my dogs to be comforted with the blanket that I slept with. It was familiar to them. When I returned and picked up the dogs, the quilt was not being rendered. The kennel keeper apologized and said "sorry, the blanket got chewed up". I asked if there was anything left of it and the kennel keeper went to the back where the dogs are boarded to check. She came back with a piece of fabric about six inches square. I took the remnant and knew it was my fault that it was destroyed. I shouldn't have given taken it to the kennel in the first place.
I like to think my grandmother who had since passed away when I received the prized quilt in the hospital, was thinking of me and looking out for me through the quilt that was given to me. I felt like she hugged me overtime I tucked myself in at night.
Two days before Christmas I got moved to a medical ward and it was a different environment all together.
Wednesday, 18 November 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, 5 November 2015
I Kicked the Doctor, and the Doctor Cried
After waiting in the emergency department for six hours my name was finally called by a nurse and I and my sisters were lead by her to a cubicle containing two stretchers, one of which was occupied by an elderly lady with her family sitting around her and the other offered to me. There was only drapes handing from the ceiling that separated that patient who was a complete stranger to me, and my stretcher. I was given a hospital gown (certainly not a gown for a red carpet appearance) with the fastener at the top of the back, leaving the rest of the back open. I was assisted to the stretcher where I laid down. After a moment I asked my sisters to raise the head of the stretcher because the hard pillow supplied no comfort. I folded my pillow in half to support my head in in my semi-sitting position. Diana and Trisha continued to keep me company seated at the side and end of my stretcher. The nurse took my vitals and documented my history. I reviewed the evolution of my current mobility impairment as well as any previous surgeries, allergies and previous conditions which included high blood pressure and severe acid reflux and long standing depression. All the while the person in the other bed in the cubicle and the visitors were suddenly quiet as they listened with interest.
Diana bagged my clothes "I'll take these home and wash them" she said. I knew she did this due to the smell from my house permeated my clothing. After a short wait, the emergency resident came in and asked me to describe the progression of my mobility impairment again. I repeated to him the exact description I had given to the nurse. He then began strength and sensory testing of each leg. As he moved each of my legs in various positions and asking me to push as hard as I could against his resistance I was focused on my unshaven legs appearing as porcupines; And then there was my lengthy toenails which captured and held dirt. Reality broke through my embarrassment as I realized my strength was impaired as I could not resist the emergency resident's push on my legs in the various positions. During the sensory assessment I did not think about the unkempt hygiene of my legs as I became more and more impatient with answering whether I could feel him moving my toes, ankles and knees which I could not. Then I answered whether I could feel him touching various spots on my legs which I could not. He asked me when my last drink was. As a medical professional I knew they had accessed my history on my electronic medical record and saw that I had previously been diagnosed with alcoholism. Still, the patient and the visitors in the next stretcher were privy to my assessment.
Im sure that my poor hygiene was documented on my emergency paper record. I can almost with certainty predict what was written by the nurses; "Thin middle aged women arrived with sisters complaining of inability to walk. Patient was unkempt. Sisters reported that patient was found in her home on a make shift bed which was a broken chair, on the floor. Patients home was reported to be filled with garbage with little room to move around."
Not determining whether I would be going home my sisters remained. The nursing staff told us that the emergency resident was making a referral to neurology. I was not surprised at this because I knew my strength and sensory assessment of my legs revealed grave results. As my sisters watched the assessment from the foot of the bed they became aware of the gravity of my condition with horror.
After a while the neurology resident came, asked me to again repeat my history and then began a neurological assessment. The testing the neurologist did was exactly the same as what the emergency resident did. I took deep breaths and sighed with impatience and frustration while complying to repetitive demands of reporting whether I could feel the pokes and prods, or resist resistance through various positions. On one occasion, the neurologist while resting my leg above the bed on his arm, did something that caused my leg to jerk and kick him in the stomach, or I think maybe a bit lower. "Ouch," he cried, "you kicked me." " I didn't do it on purpose"I replied. At least I responded to something." He then left without telling me about his findings or what he had planned for me. I felt satisfied that the assessment resulted in me kicking him after all the repetitive assessment I endured but glad it was not intentional and a response he caused himself.
By the time the neurologist did his assessment it was revealed that I was a hoarder; a new diagnosis along with my alcoholism was on my electronic medical record that will follow me forever. The details of the revelation my sisters made to the hospital staff about the condition of my house was recorded on my emergency paper record secured on a clip board and kept on a side table beside my stretcher. No one asked me about my house or asked me questions about my behaviour or hoarding tendencies, All it took was the mention of the aberrant condition of my house by my sisters to the nurses and doctors and there it was, I am a hoarder. No one asked me why my house was such a disaster or made a referral for me to talk to psychiatry. The omission of a referral to psychiatry made sense to me at the time because my physical condition was a greater concern to both me and the medical staff. I quickly adopted the label of hoarder and I became quick to admit it or reveal it from then on. I felt that I needed to be completely honest about this in order to provide insight into my condition. There was no point in denying it. Appropriate intervention would not come unless I accepted it and owned it I thought.
Finally Diana asked a nurse whether I would be going home. Only upon the enquiry by my sisters of what was ahead for me, the nurse told us that the neurologist wanted to admit me for further testing and treatment to improve my mobility. Once the notification was made that I would be admitted to the hospital my sisters left and I remained becoming part of the hub of activity and the noise of indignity in the emergency department.
As I look back through all the medical intervention I received throughout what became a very lengthy stay in the hospital, my hoarding was never addressed. I didn't know it then at the beginning in the emergency department, but admitting to hoarding only labeled me. It became a descriptor such as thin or obese, a judgement as is a drunk instead of being addicted, and not a condition that needed to be addressed. I think my readiness to admit to being a hoarder was a cry for help which was unanswered; a cry that that said it is not my house that is a disaster but my life. Help me. The garbage in my house is desperation and I am on my way to destruction. My cry was not even noticed because there were no tears.
Diana bagged my clothes "I'll take these home and wash them" she said. I knew she did this due to the smell from my house permeated my clothing. After a short wait, the emergency resident came in and asked me to describe the progression of my mobility impairment again. I repeated to him the exact description I had given to the nurse. He then began strength and sensory testing of each leg. As he moved each of my legs in various positions and asking me to push as hard as I could against his resistance I was focused on my unshaven legs appearing as porcupines; And then there was my lengthy toenails which captured and held dirt. Reality broke through my embarrassment as I realized my strength was impaired as I could not resist the emergency resident's push on my legs in the various positions. During the sensory assessment I did not think about the unkempt hygiene of my legs as I became more and more impatient with answering whether I could feel him moving my toes, ankles and knees which I could not. Then I answered whether I could feel him touching various spots on my legs which I could not. He asked me when my last drink was. As a medical professional I knew they had accessed my history on my electronic medical record and saw that I had previously been diagnosed with alcoholism. Still, the patient and the visitors in the next stretcher were privy to my assessment.
Im sure that my poor hygiene was documented on my emergency paper record. I can almost with certainty predict what was written by the nurses; "Thin middle aged women arrived with sisters complaining of inability to walk. Patient was unkempt. Sisters reported that patient was found in her home on a make shift bed which was a broken chair, on the floor. Patients home was reported to be filled with garbage with little room to move around."
Not determining whether I would be going home my sisters remained. The nursing staff told us that the emergency resident was making a referral to neurology. I was not surprised at this because I knew my strength and sensory assessment of my legs revealed grave results. As my sisters watched the assessment from the foot of the bed they became aware of the gravity of my condition with horror.
After a while the neurology resident came, asked me to again repeat my history and then began a neurological assessment. The testing the neurologist did was exactly the same as what the emergency resident did. I took deep breaths and sighed with impatience and frustration while complying to repetitive demands of reporting whether I could feel the pokes and prods, or resist resistance through various positions. On one occasion, the neurologist while resting my leg above the bed on his arm, did something that caused my leg to jerk and kick him in the stomach, or I think maybe a bit lower. "Ouch," he cried, "you kicked me." " I didn't do it on purpose"I replied. At least I responded to something." He then left without telling me about his findings or what he had planned for me. I felt satisfied that the assessment resulted in me kicking him after all the repetitive assessment I endured but glad it was not intentional and a response he caused himself.
By the time the neurologist did his assessment it was revealed that I was a hoarder; a new diagnosis along with my alcoholism was on my electronic medical record that will follow me forever. The details of the revelation my sisters made to the hospital staff about the condition of my house was recorded on my emergency paper record secured on a clip board and kept on a side table beside my stretcher. No one asked me about my house or asked me questions about my behaviour or hoarding tendencies, All it took was the mention of the aberrant condition of my house by my sisters to the nurses and doctors and there it was, I am a hoarder. No one asked me why my house was such a disaster or made a referral for me to talk to psychiatry. The omission of a referral to psychiatry made sense to me at the time because my physical condition was a greater concern to both me and the medical staff. I quickly adopted the label of hoarder and I became quick to admit it or reveal it from then on. I felt that I needed to be completely honest about this in order to provide insight into my condition. There was no point in denying it. Appropriate intervention would not come unless I accepted it and owned it I thought.
Finally Diana asked a nurse whether I would be going home. Only upon the enquiry by my sisters of what was ahead for me, the nurse told us that the neurologist wanted to admit me for further testing and treatment to improve my mobility. Once the notification was made that I would be admitted to the hospital my sisters left and I remained becoming part of the hub of activity and the noise of indignity in the emergency department.
As I look back through all the medical intervention I received throughout what became a very lengthy stay in the hospital, my hoarding was never addressed. I didn't know it then at the beginning in the emergency department, but admitting to hoarding only labeled me. It became a descriptor such as thin or obese, a judgement as is a drunk instead of being addicted, and not a condition that needed to be addressed. I think my readiness to admit to being a hoarder was a cry for help which was unanswered; a cry that that said it is not my house that is a disaster but my life. Help me. The garbage in my house is desperation and I am on my way to destruction. My cry was not even noticed because there were no tears.
Tuesday, 1 September 2015
The Emergency Department.
After checking into the emergency department of the nearest hospital to where I lived, I was given a wheelchair and I waited for eight hours to see a medical professional. So much for getting to the emergency department early in the day to get ahead of the other infermed. I was not a real emergency, I was breathing and my heart was pumping. My vitals (blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels in my blood and breathing rate) were normal. And so my sisters and I waited.
The hospital we went to was also close to the inner city and is where the prison folk are brought to. So if a person is not rushed for time it is a good place to watch people waiting in the emergency department; people puking, people drunk and not able to sit up, people complaining, babies crying, children coughing, people maimed by injured limbs, people curled up in a chair in a fetal position rocking back and forth hoping to ease their pain, people who smelled like they haven't bathed or washed their clothe ever (could be me), and people in orange onesies with shackles on their legs and handcuffed accompanied by an officer. I wondered what they did to be in prisioned.
Watching these people overtime revealed the tolerance process for having a lengthy wait. When people first came they sat down, some looking anxious and some looking like this place was a daily visit and comfortable to be there. Over time each showed agaiation toward others waiting and the medical staff , in various ways as their tolerence dwindled .Periodically, paramedics would arrive with someone on a stretcher and pass the waiting room. You know when someone in that condition require most of the staff which will increase the wait.
To ease the pain of a lengthy wait to see a doctor the hospital provided a television that hung on the wall which was turned on but with no volume. Magazines were available if you wanted to be informed of the news of the day, which at that time was a ferry sinking in Bangladesh, Prince Charles visiting flood stricken Ireland, Somalian pirates overtaking an oil tanker, Tigar Woods condition following his car accident then divorce, the emergency landing of a jet on the Hudson river, three women are found having been kidnapped eighteen years, the death of Walter Cronkite, Ted Kennedy, Michael Jackson and Ford's Saturn.
If world news is not your thing, pop culture magazines were available that reported GQ' "badass" men of the year included Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman, Johnny Depp gets People Magazines's sexiest man alive, Kenya West boycotts Taylor Swifts award for best video, David Letterman confesses that he had an affair and was being blackmailed, Robert Redford and Bruce Willis both get remarried, George Clooney remains committed to bachelorhood, and the escapades;of a divorced mother named Kate who has eight children.
I however would never touch a magazine in a public place. The bottom right corner is crawling with
A plethora of disease bugs from the saliva as a result of the saliva from the tongue to the finger
method of turning pages. When this happens repeatedly, that wet finger space becomes dirty and crusty.
Some of the people in the waiting room could care less about the news or pop culture. Instead they are focused on the hopes that their condition will allow them more time to live. There is no other place on earth like the emergency waiting room. What else would bring this mix of people together with a commonality that they require treatment to be healthier.
The wait was not so entertaining for Diane. She had a Christmas party to go to that night. I didn't
know this at the time and was happy to have someone as I wait and I go through the medical
assessment process. I was not concerned about my condition but I knew that I could not function on
my own. It never occurred to me that I would be like this for the rest of my life. Diane stayed until
they made a decision on wether I going to be admitted to the hospital or be sent home.
While we waited, and I remained in denial and my sisters debriefed on the discovery of me in my
house. Diane commented to Trisha, "John called me last night and said that someone needed to take her to the hospital". She paused as her eyes filled with tears and then said "I could not find her in the house, she blended in with the garbage". Diane continued " I was horrified, I don't understand this and I never will". "She is worse than I expected she would be from what John told me". Trisha replied, "this situation cannot stay this way". Diane was already looking at needed to be done. At that point they were committed to many hours to first deal with the house and a potential handicapped sister. This was overwhelming as they were already care givers for our parents whose health was declining
The hospital we went to was also close to the inner city and is where the prison folk are brought to. So if a person is not rushed for time it is a good place to watch people waiting in the emergency department; people puking, people drunk and not able to sit up, people complaining, babies crying, children coughing, people maimed by injured limbs, people curled up in a chair in a fetal position rocking back and forth hoping to ease their pain, people who smelled like they haven't bathed or washed their clothe ever (could be me), and people in orange onesies with shackles on their legs and handcuffed accompanied by an officer. I wondered what they did to be in prisioned.
Watching these people overtime revealed the tolerance process for having a lengthy wait. When people first came they sat down, some looking anxious and some looking like this place was a daily visit and comfortable to be there. Over time each showed agaiation toward others waiting and the medical staff , in various ways as their tolerence dwindled .Periodically, paramedics would arrive with someone on a stretcher and pass the waiting room. You know when someone in that condition require most of the staff which will increase the wait.
To ease the pain of a lengthy wait to see a doctor the hospital provided a television that hung on the wall which was turned on but with no volume. Magazines were available if you wanted to be informed of the news of the day, which at that time was a ferry sinking in Bangladesh, Prince Charles visiting flood stricken Ireland, Somalian pirates overtaking an oil tanker, Tigar Woods condition following his car accident then divorce, the emergency landing of a jet on the Hudson river, three women are found having been kidnapped eighteen years, the death of Walter Cronkite, Ted Kennedy, Michael Jackson and Ford's Saturn.
If world news is not your thing, pop culture magazines were available that reported GQ' "badass" men of the year included Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman, Johnny Depp gets People Magazines's sexiest man alive, Kenya West boycotts Taylor Swifts award for best video, David Letterman confesses that he had an affair and was being blackmailed, Robert Redford and Bruce Willis both get remarried, George Clooney remains committed to bachelorhood, and the escapades;of a divorced mother named Kate who has eight children.
I however would never touch a magazine in a public place. The bottom right corner is crawling with
A plethora of disease bugs from the saliva as a result of the saliva from the tongue to the finger
method of turning pages. When this happens repeatedly, that wet finger space becomes dirty and crusty.
Some of the people in the waiting room could care less about the news or pop culture. Instead they are focused on the hopes that their condition will allow them more time to live. There is no other place on earth like the emergency waiting room. What else would bring this mix of people together with a commonality that they require treatment to be healthier.
The wait was not so entertaining for Diane. She had a Christmas party to go to that night. I didn't
know this at the time and was happy to have someone as I wait and I go through the medical
assessment process. I was not concerned about my condition but I knew that I could not function on
my own. It never occurred to me that I would be like this for the rest of my life. Diane stayed until
they made a decision on wether I going to be admitted to the hospital or be sent home.
While we waited, and I remained in denial and my sisters debriefed on the discovery of me in my
house. Diane commented to Trisha, "John called me last night and said that someone needed to take her to the hospital". She paused as her eyes filled with tears and then said "I could not find her in the house, she blended in with the garbage". Diane continued " I was horrified, I don't understand this and I never will". "She is worse than I expected she would be from what John told me". Trisha replied, "this situation cannot stay this way". Diane was already looking at needed to be done. At that point they were committed to many hours to first deal with the house and a potential handicapped sister. This was overwhelming as they were already care givers for our parents whose health was declining
Thursday, 13 August 2015
On My Way to the Hospital
Following my three week battle with a virus, I was malnourished, dehydrated and weak. I had difficulty getting up from my cushion bed on the floor. As a rehabilitation medical professional, I had taught many seniors how to get up from a fall. I now needed that knowledge. I rolled onto the floor face down and made it to resting on my hands and knees. I then raised up to a kneeling position. Still kneeling, I raised my right knee to plant my that foot on the floor. Then with a lot of difficulty, I pushed on the raised knee with both arms shifting my weight over over my knee while planting my left foot on the floor in a crouching position. I then walked my arms up my thighs to my hips and I had made it. I was standing, but barely. I describe in detail how I got up because it describes the effort required to do so. I managed to walk to the kitchen, and supporting myself by leaning on the counter I drank water and devoured crackers I found in the kitchen cabinet. I made sure the crackers were sealed with no sign of mice munching.
After I rested for a bit I gained strength and it was time to go out for food. I discovered however that I still required the same method of getting up from my floor cushion bed. I was getting good at this method of raising. On my way to my car, I fell attempting the stairs at the back door. Not being injured, I got up by walking my arms up the stairs and was on my way to the fast food restaurant.
I found it mysterious that I could walk but could not manage stairs. I would stare at the stairs but be paralyzed on how to climb or descend them. Attempting stairs from then on was accomplished on my hands and knees.
As the days went by, even though I became stronger, I still needed my adapted method of raising from my cushion bed and managed stairs on my hands and knees. My incontenence remained
however and I went to the medical store and got some pads for my bed. I was getting out but.
strangely , I had no desire to go to the liquor store. I had no desire at that point to drink.
I drive a standard. I always have. Driving a standard is real driving and I feel I have control of the car. During this time, following my viral illness, I was driving to a fast food restaurant when I realized I could not find the gas or break peddles, or the clutch with my feet. Horrified I pulled over and needed to visually orientate my feet to the peddles. I had to consciously manage the peddles
from then on.
Once at the restaurant, I got out of my car and managed to walk to the door. I was faced with a step in front of the door without a railing. I stared at that step with fear. A man in the restaurant was looking
at me through the window. "I can't just stand here" I thought so with much courage I attemped to
ascend that step. I was not successful and crumpled on the cement step. At the time I had collapsed on the restaurant step, a woman was exiting and assisted me on my feet. I then made it to the counter and ordered my food. Then leaving the restaurant I again was faced with that stair. I had no choice
but to attemp to descend it and did so. Again I collapsed. The man wwho had been watching me came out and helped me up while saying to me "you need to go to the hospital".
Not much time passed when I discovered that not only I had difficulty getting up, and could not manage stairs, but I could not walk. Following my raising to standing routine I took a step and
fell to the floor. I got up again and when attempting to take a step I fell. Not to be defeated I got up again. I wanted to take a step but was afraid to fall again. A wall was two steps away, and I thought if I could take a leaping plunge to the wall I could use it brace myself. Getting to the wall was good in theory, but I fell again. I then crawled to the wall and used it to raised my self to standing.
As long as I had something to brace myself on I could walk. So, while wall walking was a success in my house I could not get anywhere where there was nothing to brace myself on or grab on to. I went
back to the medical supply store and got a walker. My theory was that I just needed to get stronger and the walker would assist me.
One evening I went to visit my next door neighbor as I did many times. My friend John had become
a very good friend. It was the kind of friendship that I could be totally transparent. I got to his
house using my walker but was faced with his five steps leading to the front door. I hollered for him
to come out and help me with the steps. He heard me hollering for him and he came out and assisted me up the stairs. We had a few drinks and then I needed to use his washroom. I could get up from the couch from a sitting position. On my way to the washroom I fell. John helped me up. After I used thewashroomhe told me I needed to go home because he was tired. This was unusual as we often visited late and sometimes he went to bed and let me stay and watch his television on my own just locking the door when I left.
I got back home and went to bed on my floor cushion and let the drunk put me to sleep. It was a short sleep however because I woke up needing to use the washroom. Because of my incontenence I went
to bed with no bottom clothing so I would not soil them and it was faster. By this time with
the state of my disability with walking, I just crawled to the bathroom from my floor cushion and once reaching the toilet, I used it to raise myself to sit on it.
The next morning I was woken up very early by my sister. "I'm taking you to the hospital" she said.
I agreed without thinking about how how I felt about it. "Okay" I said, " I just have to pee first". As I crawled on my hands and knees to the washroom I was mindful of the view my sister had of my naked behind. She however was focused with shock with the condition of my house. She had not
been inside my house for years. "What prompted you to come " I asked her. " John called me last night and told me you needed to go to the hospital" was her reply.
She loaded me into her SUV and off we went to the emergency department at the nearest hospital.
My other sister met us there. Little did I know that I would never live in my house another day and that I would be in the hospital for six months.
After I rested for a bit I gained strength and it was time to go out for food. I discovered however that I still required the same method of getting up from my floor cushion bed. I was getting good at this method of raising. On my way to my car, I fell attempting the stairs at the back door. Not being injured, I got up by walking my arms up the stairs and was on my way to the fast food restaurant.
I found it mysterious that I could walk but could not manage stairs. I would stare at the stairs but be paralyzed on how to climb or descend them. Attempting stairs from then on was accomplished on my hands and knees.
As the days went by, even though I became stronger, I still needed my adapted method of raising from my cushion bed and managed stairs on my hands and knees. My incontenence remained
however and I went to the medical store and got some pads for my bed. I was getting out but.
strangely , I had no desire to go to the liquor store. I had no desire at that point to drink.
I drive a standard. I always have. Driving a standard is real driving and I feel I have control of the car. During this time, following my viral illness, I was driving to a fast food restaurant when I realized I could not find the gas or break peddles, or the clutch with my feet. Horrified I pulled over and needed to visually orientate my feet to the peddles. I had to consciously manage the peddles
from then on.
Once at the restaurant, I got out of my car and managed to walk to the door. I was faced with a step in front of the door without a railing. I stared at that step with fear. A man in the restaurant was looking
at me through the window. "I can't just stand here" I thought so with much courage I attemped to
ascend that step. I was not successful and crumpled on the cement step. At the time I had collapsed on the restaurant step, a woman was exiting and assisted me on my feet. I then made it to the counter and ordered my food. Then leaving the restaurant I again was faced with that stair. I had no choice
but to attemp to descend it and did so. Again I collapsed. The man wwho had been watching me came out and helped me up while saying to me "you need to go to the hospital".
Not much time passed when I discovered that not only I had difficulty getting up, and could not manage stairs, but I could not walk. Following my raising to standing routine I took a step and
fell to the floor. I got up again and when attempting to take a step I fell. Not to be defeated I got up again. I wanted to take a step but was afraid to fall again. A wall was two steps away, and I thought if I could take a leaping plunge to the wall I could use it brace myself. Getting to the wall was good in theory, but I fell again. I then crawled to the wall and used it to raised my self to standing.
As long as I had something to brace myself on I could walk. So, while wall walking was a success in my house I could not get anywhere where there was nothing to brace myself on or grab on to. I went
back to the medical supply store and got a walker. My theory was that I just needed to get stronger and the walker would assist me.
One evening I went to visit my next door neighbor as I did many times. My friend John had become
a very good friend. It was the kind of friendship that I could be totally transparent. I got to his
house using my walker but was faced with his five steps leading to the front door. I hollered for him
to come out and help me with the steps. He heard me hollering for him and he came out and assisted me up the stairs. We had a few drinks and then I needed to use his washroom. I could get up from the couch from a sitting position. On my way to the washroom I fell. John helped me up. After I used thewashroomhe told me I needed to go home because he was tired. This was unusual as we often visited late and sometimes he went to bed and let me stay and watch his television on my own just locking the door when I left.
I got back home and went to bed on my floor cushion and let the drunk put me to sleep. It was a short sleep however because I woke up needing to use the washroom. Because of my incontenence I went
to bed with no bottom clothing so I would not soil them and it was faster. By this time with
the state of my disability with walking, I just crawled to the bathroom from my floor cushion and once reaching the toilet, I used it to raise myself to sit on it.
The next morning I was woken up very early by my sister. "I'm taking you to the hospital" she said.
I agreed without thinking about how how I felt about it. "Okay" I said, " I just have to pee first". As I crawled on my hands and knees to the washroom I was mindful of the view my sister had of my naked behind. She however was focused with shock with the condition of my house. She had not
been inside my house for years. "What prompted you to come " I asked her. " John called me last night and told me you needed to go to the hospital" was her reply.
She loaded me into her SUV and off we went to the emergency department at the nearest hospital.
My other sister met us there. Little did I know that I would never live in my house another day and that I would be in the hospital for six months.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)