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.
Tuesday, 23 February 2016
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.
Thursday, 6 August 2015
Derailed
I had been working on my next blog which further describes my physical deterioration as a continuation from my last blog but I got derailed with negative thoughts. I was sick last week for a couple of days and during that time I ran out of meds, so I went without my anti depression, anxiety and nerve damage pain control medication. As a result my emotional thoughts superceded my
intellectual ones.
I went down a thought path where I felt unconfident about myself and the purpose of this blog and wether I should be doing it at all. I thought about my friends who one by one are retiring and doing things that I have on my bucket list which includes travelling and owning a house. I pay outrageous rent a month just to remain here because I have two dogs and there is no other rental accommodation that will accept two dogs. Besides, they have already wrecked this place. They are very old and have lost their bladder control. They have peed on one spot in my living area so I might as well stay here until they have passed away.
When comparing my financial situation with my friends who are successfully retired and are travelling I have myself a pity party. I focus on how I ruined my life and health through hoarding. I am a medical professional and should have a good retirement fund saved through work and my own savings. Because of my hoarding I lost my house which I would have owned by now and would be mortgage free. I would have had enough money to do the travelling I want to do except I spent everything I had. Any money I had saved I used up when I was disabled and had no source of income.
And so I was very discouraged and thought "is all I have in life is to blog about how I wrecked my life"? Then a friend of mine who I see only occasionally because she lives in the opposite side of the country was here to visit and said that she needed to pick my brain about my experience because she has a loved one who is suffering with hoarding. We had a conversation about my experience with hoarding and following that I told my friend that her enquiry came at a great time because it reinforced why I was blogging about hoarding, depression and alcoholism. The reason I am blogging about my experience is to help hoarders, their family and friends and the intervention service providers.
If anyone who is reading by blog as I write it has questions or comments please use the comment functionality included with the blogs. Perhaps other hoarders or their family and friends or service providers could use this blog to be encourage each other and gain insight into this mysterious disorder. I will continue to blog to tell my story. I encourage everyone who is reading any portion of it to read from the first blog though to the most recent so it reads like a book.
intellectual ones.
I went down a thought path where I felt unconfident about myself and the purpose of this blog and wether I should be doing it at all. I thought about my friends who one by one are retiring and doing things that I have on my bucket list which includes travelling and owning a house. I pay outrageous rent a month just to remain here because I have two dogs and there is no other rental accommodation that will accept two dogs. Besides, they have already wrecked this place. They are very old and have lost their bladder control. They have peed on one spot in my living area so I might as well stay here until they have passed away.
When comparing my financial situation with my friends who are successfully retired and are travelling I have myself a pity party. I focus on how I ruined my life and health through hoarding. I am a medical professional and should have a good retirement fund saved through work and my own savings. Because of my hoarding I lost my house which I would have owned by now and would be mortgage free. I would have had enough money to do the travelling I want to do except I spent everything I had. Any money I had saved I used up when I was disabled and had no source of income.
And so I was very discouraged and thought "is all I have in life is to blog about how I wrecked my life"? Then a friend of mine who I see only occasionally because she lives in the opposite side of the country was here to visit and said that she needed to pick my brain about my experience because she has a loved one who is suffering with hoarding. We had a conversation about my experience with hoarding and following that I told my friend that her enquiry came at a great time because it reinforced why I was blogging about hoarding, depression and alcoholism. The reason I am blogging about my experience is to help hoarders, their family and friends and the intervention service providers.
If anyone who is reading by blog as I write it has questions or comments please use the comment functionality included with the blogs. Perhaps other hoarders or their family and friends or service providers could use this blog to be encourage each other and gain insight into this mysterious disorder. I will continue to blog to tell my story. I encourage everyone who is reading any portion of it to read from the first blog though to the most recent so it reads like a book.
Saturday, 18 July 2015
Total Disability
I had been unemployed for three months. For the three months I took up knitting for something to do but could do that only when I was not drinking. I ended up only knitting about three inches on the side of a sweater.
I would wake up at about nine o'clock and drink the remainder of the alcohol I had from the day before, and then sleep to late afternoon. I then would go out, get some fast food and alcohol for the evening. After dinner I would go to either one of my neighbors who would drink with me until late, and then I would stumble home and pass out, another day making it through. If I had a calendar and crossed off day after day that I did this I might have realized how my life was passing by, but only by surviving the time that a day measures. That is what my life had become; making it through each day. What worth in life comes from daily survival from self induced complications? The answer to that escaped me because I did not ask it. I kept drinking so that I did not have to because I was fearful of what the answer would command.
Then one day I woke up sick. It was not a cold with congestion and coughing, nor was it a gastrointestinal illness with nausea and diarrhea. Every cell in my body screamed with pain. My temperature was up I'm sure as I sweated profusely. My body shivered. It hurt to move. Every joint jolted with pain if I tried to change position. I had to weigh the result of pain from movement with the discomfort of staying in the same position for long periods of time when I decided if I would move or not.
I did not eat or drink anything. I was not hungry and even if I was I could not get up to get it. Even so, by body continued to function and provided the need to go to the bathroom to void. It took a lot of courage to move to get up and go to,the washroom. When I did my body more than shivered, it almost convulsed with chills.
I was thankful for sleep but was wakened by the need to go to the washroom. Again and again I mustered the courage to move, get up and get to the washroom, each time barely making it due to the pain with removing my clothes. After some time passed, it did not matter if I could get up. I lost control of my bladder and that caused the problem with clean up. I grabbed newspapers close by and placed them under my hips hoping that using and removing the paper when soiled would take care of that problem. Whether the newspaper solved my new experience with inconvenience or not I did not care, the pain I was sufferring was more prominent.
I shivered and shook for quite some time. I had lost all awareness of time but once the fever broke and the shaking stopped and I reoriented myself, I determined that I was sick for three weeks. Then something very unusual and concerning happened. I could not stand up or get up from my floor cushion. Every time I would try to stand up, my legs crumpled from beneath me.
I would wake up at about nine o'clock and drink the remainder of the alcohol I had from the day before, and then sleep to late afternoon. I then would go out, get some fast food and alcohol for the evening. After dinner I would go to either one of my neighbors who would drink with me until late, and then I would stumble home and pass out, another day making it through. If I had a calendar and crossed off day after day that I did this I might have realized how my life was passing by, but only by surviving the time that a day measures. That is what my life had become; making it through each day. What worth in life comes from daily survival from self induced complications? The answer to that escaped me because I did not ask it. I kept drinking so that I did not have to because I was fearful of what the answer would command.
Then one day I woke up sick. It was not a cold with congestion and coughing, nor was it a gastrointestinal illness with nausea and diarrhea. Every cell in my body screamed with pain. My temperature was up I'm sure as I sweated profusely. My body shivered. It hurt to move. Every joint jolted with pain if I tried to change position. I had to weigh the result of pain from movement with the discomfort of staying in the same position for long periods of time when I decided if I would move or not.
I did not eat or drink anything. I was not hungry and even if I was I could not get up to get it. Even so, by body continued to function and provided the need to go to the bathroom to void. It took a lot of courage to move to get up and go to,the washroom. When I did my body more than shivered, it almost convulsed with chills.
I was thankful for sleep but was wakened by the need to go to the washroom. Again and again I mustered the courage to move, get up and get to the washroom, each time barely making it due to the pain with removing my clothes. After some time passed, it did not matter if I could get up. I lost control of my bladder and that caused the problem with clean up. I grabbed newspapers close by and placed them under my hips hoping that using and removing the paper when soiled would take care of that problem. Whether the newspaper solved my new experience with inconvenience or not I did not care, the pain I was sufferring was more prominent.
I shivered and shook for quite some time. I had lost all awareness of time but once the fever broke and the shaking stopped and I reoriented myself, I determined that I was sick for three weeks. Then something very unusual and concerning happened. I could not stand up or get up from my floor cushion. Every time I would try to stand up, my legs crumpled from beneath me.
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