Having Run-Ins with Authority (2)
As the days of the New Year passed by, talks with the health-care professionals as to where Mum would go next, became a great deal more pressing. We kept being told that we must make a decision: was Mum coming home to live with us, or were we going to put her into a care home?
I knew it would impossible for us to take Mum home in her current state - she needed more time, in a rehabilitation setting, with more help that was not available in her current situation. We knew that there must be options, but they would have to be found, recommended and fought for; Mum wasn't fit enough to come straight home, and we were not going to be bamboozled into rushing into something that could turn out to be a disaster.
During this time, we took advice from very helpful people in the Patients Advisory Liaison Service (PALS), and one of the orthopaedic surgeons gave me another good piece of advice. He said, "I know you want to have your Mum living with you; and from her follow-up appointments, I can see why you are worried about her being discharged straight from hospital to home." He then told me, "You must say, if she comes home now, you cannot guarantee her safety....."
That turned out to be a gem. One morning, whilst I was with Mum, helping her to brush her teeth and giving her breakfast with full cream milk, the Ward Manager came over to see me.
"I have to tell you," she said, "we have arranged a full meeting this morning, regarding your Mother's future care. All the health professionals who have dealt with your Mother will be present, to discuss what we are going to do."
It was very much on a "take it or leave it" attitude. We had no choice in the matter; the meeting would go ahead in a couple of hours, whether the rest of the family could be there or not.
I quickly rang round, and rallied everyone - in the end, three of us were ranged against a panel of health care professionals who definitely considered they knew better than anyone, what should happen to Mum.
I am not that good at coping in situations like these. Hours later, there are always things I remember I should have said, and things I wish I had thought about at the time, and had omitted to put forward. Happily, one member of the family is able to sit calmly and quietly during meetings, not saying very much at all, just listening, taking everything in; later, like a tiger, he pounces, leaving the opponent with not much choice but to agree to all he suggests.
The meeting commenced. Reports flowed back and forth and the main objective was to move Mum on - in the circumstances, it was felt, a care home would be best. We were adamant this was not our wish, but before coming home to live with us, we felt Mum needed to spend some time in a "half-way" situation. We had heard about a particular hospital, where patients could stay for a maximum of six weeks, and which concentrated on helping them to achieve their full potential; this would also give us the time we needed to get things organised at home.
The young social worker who was present made a great show of rustling her folders, files and paper work; she piped up that it was impossible to find a bed in this hospital; in addition, it was in a different area, and there would be no funding available..... There was a general nodding of heads; clearly the panel felt that that would be that, we would accept what the Social Worker said, and go away.
This was the moment when our family struck back; they had reckoned without the tiger. Very quietly, so everyone had to pay attention and listen, he looked straight at the Social Worker and said, "Well, then, you are going have to try and achieve what we are asking. This is the week you are going to have to earn your salary.....!"
After that, the meeting broke up very quickly. If some of the people present had been able to harrumph at the suggestion of Mum moving to rehab, they most certainly would have done; we hardly merited a "Goodbye" from anyone. I saw Mum on the ward, and promised I would be back later, as usual, with her dinner. Mum of course remained in blissful ignorance about the meeting that had just taken place, where strangers, who knew little about her, and nothing of her past history, had been trying to organise her life - and ours! - for her. I went home, the rest of the family went to their work; we felt we had already done a full day's work! It had been quite a morning, and we awaited developments with trepidation.
Over the next few days, every time I went on the ward, I sensed a certain froidure in the air emanating from the Ward Managers; this persisted until a week or so after the meeting, when the Social Worker returned for a visit to Mum, with a progress report.
She was positively beaming. "I have some good news!" she said, "I've managed to get your mother a bed in the rehab hospital! They are organising an admission date, and will let us know soon, exactly when it is."
"That's an excellent result," I said. I let go of the feeling that if we hadn't been prepared to stand up and fight for what we knew was best for Mum, no-one in authority would have made the effort!
Sunday, 27 August 2017
Tuesday, 8 August 2017
Having A Run-In With Authority (1)
Having A Run-In With Authority (1)
With Christmas behind us, and the New Year also duly celebrated with Mum in hospital, 2012 was clearly going to present some major obstacles to be overcome.
We realised Mum could not go back to her old home - there were too many stairs and it was too far away for it to be practical for one of us to be there with her all the time.
Equally, because of work commitments, it was going to take longer than I guess anyone wanted, to achieve a smooth move; we were not going to be rushed.
Physiotherapy continued, but because of Mum's fear and reluctance to make an effort, progress was slow. She was fitted with a moon boot, but found it very painful to wear. Her left hip had stopped hurting her so much, but her right knee could still cause her gyp, and she kept saying that at 92, she couldn't do so much; however, after all these protests, on another day she would suddenly be convinced she would soon be able to get back to walking five miles a day!
Mum certainly used to be a great walker. Before her accident, she would often walk from her maisonette in Southsea to the hospital - and that really was a long way! I'm not sure if she just wanted to save the bus fare, or simply enjoyed a day in the fresh air. She would take rests on the way, get talking to people and then tell me she had got their address, and wanted me to write to them. (As I've mentioned before, this is how my Christmas card list got longer and longer, every year!)
I kept encouraging her to believe that if she could only conquer her initial fears, she would indeed be up and walking again. I was careful not to be too specific or ambitious about distances, but I reckoned the more we could convince her to try and have confidence to weight bear, the greater the chance we would have of success.
Although progress was slow, she did seem to be getting the idea; that is, until one morning, whilst I was with Mum after helping her to finish her breakfast, the Doctor came on the ward round, closely followed by his entourage of Ward Manager and senior nursing staff.
He arrived at Mum's bed; she did her usual "Good morning! And where are you from?" routine - Mum always asks where people come from. He hardly looked at her, and just kept his eyes down, reading through her notes. (This of course was before the "Hello, my name is......." campaign that took off in 2013, and encourages health care professionals to introduce themselves properly to patients). At last he spoke to her, and asked her how she was feeling.
"I'm fine, thank you," said Mum, very brightly and hopefully, "and I'm looking forward to getting out of hospital, and walking again."
The Doctor perused Mum's notes for another moment or two, and then delivered his prognosis:
"You will never walk again." He was almost smiling as he said it, and as his words sank in, I saw the look on Mum's face. She was so crushed, and I thought, "How can you say that to someone?"
Without stopping to think, I came out with, "How dare you say that? Only God decides what will happen to us, and whether my mother will walk or not. Who do you think you are? God?"
It was a fortunate that Mum's bed was the last one in the six-bed room on the round. The Ward Manager's face was a picture: shock, horror, disbelief that this crazy woman had dared to confront the Doctor with such a rebuke. The nursing staff swiftly closed ranks around the Doctor and hustled him off to the next room, without so much as a backward glance at me, or at Mum, who was still looking stricken.
She said, "I will walk, won't I?"
"Of course you will," I assured her. I could not know at that time whether that would be true or not, but what on earth is the point of causing distress to a lady of 92? Hope springs eternal, and should not be extinguished.
Years later, when Mum was attending an appointment at another hospital, we came across this Doctor again. He was charm personified, and I thought perhaps he had decided to change his manner, and the way he interacted with patients; then I realised he had not recognised Mum, and had not got a clue who I was. Just as well, really!
With Christmas behind us, and the New Year also duly celebrated with Mum in hospital, 2012 was clearly going to present some major obstacles to be overcome.
We realised Mum could not go back to her old home - there were too many stairs and it was too far away for it to be practical for one of us to be there with her all the time.
Equally, because of work commitments, it was going to take longer than I guess anyone wanted, to achieve a smooth move; we were not going to be rushed.
Physiotherapy continued, but because of Mum's fear and reluctance to make an effort, progress was slow. She was fitted with a moon boot, but found it very painful to wear. Her left hip had stopped hurting her so much, but her right knee could still cause her gyp, and she kept saying that at 92, she couldn't do so much; however, after all these protests, on another day she would suddenly be convinced she would soon be able to get back to walking five miles a day!
Mum certainly used to be a great walker. Before her accident, she would often walk from her maisonette in Southsea to the hospital - and that really was a long way! I'm not sure if she just wanted to save the bus fare, or simply enjoyed a day in the fresh air. She would take rests on the way, get talking to people and then tell me she had got their address, and wanted me to write to them. (As I've mentioned before, this is how my Christmas card list got longer and longer, every year!)
I kept encouraging her to believe that if she could only conquer her initial fears, she would indeed be up and walking again. I was careful not to be too specific or ambitious about distances, but I reckoned the more we could convince her to try and have confidence to weight bear, the greater the chance we would have of success.
Although progress was slow, she did seem to be getting the idea; that is, until one morning, whilst I was with Mum after helping her to finish her breakfast, the Doctor came on the ward round, closely followed by his entourage of Ward Manager and senior nursing staff.
He arrived at Mum's bed; she did her usual "Good morning! And where are you from?" routine - Mum always asks where people come from. He hardly looked at her, and just kept his eyes down, reading through her notes. (This of course was before the "Hello, my name is......." campaign that took off in 2013, and encourages health care professionals to introduce themselves properly to patients). At last he spoke to her, and asked her how she was feeling.
"I'm fine, thank you," said Mum, very brightly and hopefully, "and I'm looking forward to getting out of hospital, and walking again."
The Doctor perused Mum's notes for another moment or two, and then delivered his prognosis:
"You will never walk again." He was almost smiling as he said it, and as his words sank in, I saw the look on Mum's face. She was so crushed, and I thought, "How can you say that to someone?"
Without stopping to think, I came out with, "How dare you say that? Only God decides what will happen to us, and whether my mother will walk or not. Who do you think you are? God?"
It was a fortunate that Mum's bed was the last one in the six-bed room on the round. The Ward Manager's face was a picture: shock, horror, disbelief that this crazy woman had dared to confront the Doctor with such a rebuke. The nursing staff swiftly closed ranks around the Doctor and hustled him off to the next room, without so much as a backward glance at me, or at Mum, who was still looking stricken.
She said, "I will walk, won't I?"
"Of course you will," I assured her. I could not know at that time whether that would be true or not, but what on earth is the point of causing distress to a lady of 92? Hope springs eternal, and should not be extinguished.
Years later, when Mum was attending an appointment at another hospital, we came across this Doctor again. He was charm personified, and I thought perhaps he had decided to change his manner, and the way he interacted with patients; then I realised he had not recognised Mum, and had not got a clue who I was. Just as well, really!
Wednesday, 26 July 2017
A Hospital Christmas
A Hospital Christmas
I have always enjoyed Christmas. I know some people say the actual day doesn't live up to the anticipation, but I don't know about that; there is a lot to do, but if you get organised, and start nice and early, everything can be accomplished in good time, and I usually have a fairly relaxed day with the family.
One of the things I also love to do, is write letters. Because we lived in so many places, over the years I have "collected" friends - some have stayed closer than others, of course, but I have always enjoyed the challenge of keeping up with folks, and I am regarded by some people as a sort of "hub" - "Tell Alexandra what we've been up to, " they say," and ask her to write to all the other people that we know, with our news."
And these are just the people I have got to know over the years!
Mum, on the other hand, does not write letters. However, when she meets people, and gets friendly and chatting, over the fullness of time, she will say, "Oh, do give my daughter your address; she loves writing, and will keep in touch with you."
Needless to say, my list is now an extremely long one. Apart from Christmas, if possible I make contact with people a few times a year - Easter, and maybe in the summer as well. If I have been pressed for time, then Christmas is a wonderful season for catching up, and making amends for being a tardy correspondent. With the advent of e-mail, which is cheap - and quick! - I have been known to use it; but I still prefer a letter, or a card, chosen with care, dropping on the mat. Something that one has touched, and written on, always means more to me than a print out from the computer.
As Mum had been in hospital since 4 November, Christmas 2011 was proving to be a challenge. We visited Mum twice a day without fail, to take food to her and keep her cheerful. We never missed a single day (not for us the lines from Gilbert and Sullivan's aria for the Captain of HMS Pinafore.... "What, never?" "No, Never!" "What Never?" "Well, hardly ever!"), and the time had just flown.
I thought, if I could take in steaming dishes for dinner, then instead of just sitting with Mum and watching her eat, I could also bring Christmas cards and writing paper with me. That year I wrote all the Christmas cards and most of the letters, sitting with Mum. The nurses thought I was most industrious, but in fact it was quite a pleasure; it gave me a chance to talk to Mum about the people I was writing to and, at that stage, she could remember nearly everybody, and where they had featured in her life.
In the event, all the cards, letters and parcels were sent off in good time.
On Christmas Day, I prepared the dinner for all the family; we ended up eating later in the day, but first we were at the hospital for Mum, with turkey, roast potatoes and all the vegetables she was fond of. I personally do not like brussels sprouts! but Mum and the rest of the family are keen on them, and it was quite easy to keep us all happy.
The Ward Manager had given us permission to bring in some instruments to provide musical entertainment for the patients, and it went down extremely well. We all donned Santa hats, wound tinsel in our hair and around our shoulders, and started off at the top of the central aisle of the ward, working our way down past all the bays. I play the piano, but as a big instrument like that was clearly unavailable (a bit reminiscent of "..... I took my harp to a party - but nobody asked me to play!") we made do with acoustic guitars. We all sing; Wendy has a beautiful voice and can sing any descant you can think of. I love performing with Wendy; I stick to the melody and she adds the embellishments!
Patients and nurses joined in the carols, and we also performed some songs from the shows, a bit of country and western and threw in some music hall numbers for good measure.
Every patient on the ward had been given gifts from the hospital, which I thought was a lovely touch; not everyone had visitors, but no-one was left out. We also took a bumper box of crackers with us, and anyone who wanted to, or who could, shared a snap and a hat and a little novelty.
I have read that in earlier years, patients in hospital at Christmas would be treated to visits from consultants and senior medical staff, who would provide Christmas dinners and generally spend a lot of time on the wards. I guess everything changes! but for us, this Christmas was fun, and certainly different from the ones we had celebrated up to then.
I have always enjoyed Christmas. I know some people say the actual day doesn't live up to the anticipation, but I don't know about that; there is a lot to do, but if you get organised, and start nice and early, everything can be accomplished in good time, and I usually have a fairly relaxed day with the family.
One of the things I also love to do, is write letters. Because we lived in so many places, over the years I have "collected" friends - some have stayed closer than others, of course, but I have always enjoyed the challenge of keeping up with folks, and I am regarded by some people as a sort of "hub" - "Tell Alexandra what we've been up to, " they say," and ask her to write to all the other people that we know, with our news."
And these are just the people I have got to know over the years!
Mum, on the other hand, does not write letters. However, when she meets people, and gets friendly and chatting, over the fullness of time, she will say, "Oh, do give my daughter your address; she loves writing, and will keep in touch with you."
Needless to say, my list is now an extremely long one. Apart from Christmas, if possible I make contact with people a few times a year - Easter, and maybe in the summer as well. If I have been pressed for time, then Christmas is a wonderful season for catching up, and making amends for being a tardy correspondent. With the advent of e-mail, which is cheap - and quick! - I have been known to use it; but I still prefer a letter, or a card, chosen with care, dropping on the mat. Something that one has touched, and written on, always means more to me than a print out from the computer.
As Mum had been in hospital since 4 November, Christmas 2011 was proving to be a challenge. We visited Mum twice a day without fail, to take food to her and keep her cheerful. We never missed a single day (not for us the lines from Gilbert and Sullivan's aria for the Captain of HMS Pinafore.... "What, never?" "No, Never!" "What Never?" "Well, hardly ever!"), and the time had just flown.
I thought, if I could take in steaming dishes for dinner, then instead of just sitting with Mum and watching her eat, I could also bring Christmas cards and writing paper with me. That year I wrote all the Christmas cards and most of the letters, sitting with Mum. The nurses thought I was most industrious, but in fact it was quite a pleasure; it gave me a chance to talk to Mum about the people I was writing to and, at that stage, she could remember nearly everybody, and where they had featured in her life.
In the event, all the cards, letters and parcels were sent off in good time.
On Christmas Day, I prepared the dinner for all the family; we ended up eating later in the day, but first we were at the hospital for Mum, with turkey, roast potatoes and all the vegetables she was fond of. I personally do not like brussels sprouts! but Mum and the rest of the family are keen on them, and it was quite easy to keep us all happy.
The Ward Manager had given us permission to bring in some instruments to provide musical entertainment for the patients, and it went down extremely well. We all donned Santa hats, wound tinsel in our hair and around our shoulders, and started off at the top of the central aisle of the ward, working our way down past all the bays. I play the piano, but as a big instrument like that was clearly unavailable (a bit reminiscent of "..... I took my harp to a party - but nobody asked me to play!") we made do with acoustic guitars. We all sing; Wendy has a beautiful voice and can sing any descant you can think of. I love performing with Wendy; I stick to the melody and she adds the embellishments!
Patients and nurses joined in the carols, and we also performed some songs from the shows, a bit of country and western and threw in some music hall numbers for good measure.
Every patient on the ward had been given gifts from the hospital, which I thought was a lovely touch; not everyone had visitors, but no-one was left out. We also took a bumper box of crackers with us, and anyone who wanted to, or who could, shared a snap and a hat and a little novelty.
I have read that in earlier years, patients in hospital at Christmas would be treated to visits from consultants and senior medical staff, who would provide Christmas dinners and generally spend a lot of time on the wards. I guess everything changes! but for us, this Christmas was fun, and certainly different from the ones we had celebrated up to then.
Wednesday, 19 July 2017
Mum Gives Us A Fright
Mum Gives Us A Fright
We'd made plans for Saturday, 15 July, when one of us could have a turn down at the Epping Ongar Railway. It does take some organising, as there always has to be someone with Mum, but we really look forward to having a few hours chuffing along with steam trains. I am not called a Railway Cat for nothing!
Saturday dawned. Two carers, Vicky and Danielle, arrived at about 7.00 a.m. as usual, to get Mum up, washed and dressed, and sitting in the chair, all ready for me to come along and help her to brush her teeth (Mum doesn't like anyone touching her face or her teeth), and make a nice mug of tea and corn flakes for breakfast.
Saturday proved more complicated. After about half an hour, I was asked to come and help. In spite of being called, encouraged and cajoled, Mum was not waking up; she just lay in bed, and even when the carers tried putting their arms around Mum to help her to sit up, it was having no effect; she simply lay back on the bed and slept on. Even my stentorian powers of a trained voice bellowing, "Come on, Mum, it's time to get up now!" had no effect.
The carers were very concerned, because they could hear a trace of a raspy sound as Mum breathed, and it was agreed they would ring the emergency service. I was very impressed with the calm, swift way they dealt with everything. Vicky rang 999 and explained that Mum was totally unresponsive to them; she was asked to check Mum's breathing and report on the frequency. Within a few minutes, two paramedics arrived by car, and started to carry out tests on Mum; they were swiftly followed by two more paramedics in an ambulance, so she was getting the best attention.
Soon Mum was carried out to the ambulance; I said I would go with her, and waited whilst the paramedics carried out some more tests. They also got a line into Mum, in case she needed any medication intravenously, and at last we were ready to go. Mum was tightly strapped in on the stretcher, which was just as well, as we set off at a great lick, flying over the speed control humps on the way.
Even for reasonably healthy people, the journey was very bumpy. Clinging on to my seat for dear life, I came out with:
"This is really uncomfortable! I'll bet you hate the humps when you have patients with spinal injuries!"
The paramedic sitting with us in the back of the ambulance turned to me said,
"Oh, of course, you won't know, will you? We're blue lighted all the way to the hospital! And, yes, we do hate the humps. Especially when you have an old vehicle like this one.....!"
It was a blessed relief when the ambulance swung into the bay at the A&E Department. Mum was still showing no signs of stirring, so we were clearly headed for the right place, as she was wheeled into the "resus" area.
There were so many things going through my mind at that moment. I answered all the questions about her general health and medication, and the doctors got on with running multiple tests on Mum. Within a very short time, she had had an ECG, an X-ray, and enough phials of blood to satisfy the thirstiest vampire. I was reminded of that wonderful line in The Blood Donor, one of the old Tony Hancock radio programmes from the 1950s and 60s, where Hancock asks indignantly, "A pint? Have you gone raving mad?..... Why, that's very nearly an armful!"
During all this activity, Mum started to stir, and woke up. It was such a relief; she became quite chatty and asked the doctors and nurses attending to her who they were and where they came from - when two of them said, "Italy," Mum was delighted, and went on to tell them we'd been there too, and how much we had liked it. Mum was quite lucid, and answered various questions, telling them her date of birth and where she was born. She couldn't understand how she had come to be in hospital, though, and I explained how worried we had been, when she wouldn't wake up.
It was decided to do a CT scan of Mum's head, and in the meantime, we were moved out of the Re-sus area, and taken to a bay in the Majors area of A&E. You could not fault the care Mum was given, or the speed of its delivery.
At this point, I needed to get home for something to eat and drink. Another member of the family arrived, with toothpaste and toothbrush for Mum, so we managed to freshen her up and get her teeth cleaned, and then I could go home for an hour or so.
Whilst I was away, Mum had the CT scan, after which she became very sleepy once more; in the end, she slept in A&E for a further 2 hours. Whilst Mum snoozed on, the results came back from the lab. There was no obvious reason why Mum had been so unresponsive earlier; the blood tests were fine, the X-ray was clear, the ECG showed nothing unusual and the CT scan gave no cause for concern either.
I was ready to return to the hospital, when I got a call to say Mum was being discharged, and there would be a letter going to her GP, requesting further monitoring tests. I went back to A&E and ordered a wheelchair taxi, and Mum was back home by 1.00 p.m. - just the right time for lunch, of course, except that we hadn't had breakfast yet!
With everything that had happened in the morning, all the other calls for carers to come in had been cancelled; now that we were back home so much earlier than we had thought possible, I rang Vicky at Home Sweet Home Care, to ask if there was any chance at all of someone coming in to help get Mum washed and dressed, and bless them, within half an hour, another carer called Debbie arrived, whom Mum knows well, and she carried out the complete morning call routine. Home Sweet Home really live up to their name, and Mum is never looked at as just "a slot to be filled on the rota..."
And so we carried on as usual. We had breakfast at lunch time; Mum had her afternoon nap as she always does, and then we had tea and cake at supper time. At all events, we had a totally different Saturday to the one planned - a case of "The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley!"
Whatever the cause, at the moment we don't have an answer - and we don't like mysteries!
There were so many things going through my mind at that moment. I answered all the questions about her general health and medication, and the doctors got on with running multiple tests on Mum. Within a very short time, she had had an ECG, an X-ray, and enough phials of blood to satisfy the thirstiest vampire. I was reminded of that wonderful line in The Blood Donor, one of the old Tony Hancock radio programmes from the 1950s and 60s, where Hancock asks indignantly, "A pint? Have you gone raving mad?..... Why, that's very nearly an armful!"
During all this activity, Mum started to stir, and woke up. It was such a relief; she became quite chatty and asked the doctors and nurses attending to her who they were and where they came from - when two of them said, "Italy," Mum was delighted, and went on to tell them we'd been there too, and how much we had liked it. Mum was quite lucid, and answered various questions, telling them her date of birth and where she was born. She couldn't understand how she had come to be in hospital, though, and I explained how worried we had been, when she wouldn't wake up.
It was decided to do a CT scan of Mum's head, and in the meantime, we were moved out of the Re-sus area, and taken to a bay in the Majors area of A&E. You could not fault the care Mum was given, or the speed of its delivery.
At this point, I needed to get home for something to eat and drink. Another member of the family arrived, with toothpaste and toothbrush for Mum, so we managed to freshen her up and get her teeth cleaned, and then I could go home for an hour or so.
Whilst I was away, Mum had the CT scan, after which she became very sleepy once more; in the end, she slept in A&E for a further 2 hours. Whilst Mum snoozed on, the results came back from the lab. There was no obvious reason why Mum had been so unresponsive earlier; the blood tests were fine, the X-ray was clear, the ECG showed nothing unusual and the CT scan gave no cause for concern either.
I was ready to return to the hospital, when I got a call to say Mum was being discharged, and there would be a letter going to her GP, requesting further monitoring tests. I went back to A&E and ordered a wheelchair taxi, and Mum was back home by 1.00 p.m. - just the right time for lunch, of course, except that we hadn't had breakfast yet!
With everything that had happened in the morning, all the other calls for carers to come in had been cancelled; now that we were back home so much earlier than we had thought possible, I rang Vicky at Home Sweet Home Care, to ask if there was any chance at all of someone coming in to help get Mum washed and dressed, and bless them, within half an hour, another carer called Debbie arrived, whom Mum knows well, and she carried out the complete morning call routine. Home Sweet Home really live up to their name, and Mum is never looked at as just "a slot to be filled on the rota..."
And so we carried on as usual. We had breakfast at lunch time; Mum had her afternoon nap as she always does, and then we had tea and cake at supper time. At all events, we had a totally different Saturday to the one planned - a case of "The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley!"
Although she seemed a little bit dozier than she normally is, it isn't that unusual for Mum to have "I'm tired" days, and we are still no wiser as to why she was totally unresponsive to all blandishments in the morning. Maybe her brain had switched off in some way?
Whatever the cause, at the moment we don't have an answer - and we don't like mysteries!
Monday, 10 July 2017
It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It......
It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It.......
In spite of having dementia, Mum can learn new things.
It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It.....
My daughter Wendy has a pussy cat, called Artemis. Mum knows nothing about Greek mythology, and there is no way she would learn or remember that name, so I had to think of a way to help her. A simplified version of the name would do so, along with some miming, I set about trying to get the name to stay in her memory. I hit on the idea of pretending to hold a palette, and mimed mixing paints and then making extravagant brush strokes in the air.
Mum enjoyed this as a game; we have played charades in the past.
Alex: "What am I doing?"
Mum: "Oh, you're drawing!"
Alex: "Right! And what do you call people who make drawings?"
Mum: "Artists!"
Alex: "That's it! And that is what Wendy's pussy cat is called - Artist."
And so Artemis became Artist in Mum's head; and that was close enough.
When Mum is drinking her tea, we help her to finish it by suggesting she has one mouthful in turn for all the pussycats. As I've mentioned before, we do "rounds," mentioning all the cats in turn; occasionally, Mum forgets the name "Artist."
If you then say, "Have a drink for Wendy's pussy cat - what is she called?" Mum may or may not come out with the right name - it is a bit hit and miss, and can sometimes elicit all sorts of strange, totally unrelated names: "Liverpool....." "....Australia...." "......Morrisons..." (Where did that come from?!)
If, however, you phrase it with a bit of a lilt, and emphasis on certain words:
"Let's have one for Wendy and Al's pussy cat; what's her name?" Mum will invariably say, "Artist!"
Great praise all round for her good memory, and another mouthful of tea goes down.
Sunday, 2 July 2017
Mum's Matchmaking
Mum's Matchmaking
My Uncle John is Mum's brother, and he lives in Brisbane. Since his wife (Aunt Marguerite) died in 2003, he has been very lonely; he has no grandchildren. He manages very well, still drives and looks after himself in a retirement unit, but he would love to have a nice lady friend, to enjoy outings with, take out for lunch and maybe go to the cinema with occasionally.
Mum is aware of his situation, and tries her best to get him matched up with any lady that comes into her life.
Scene: Mum is being taken to the bathroom by a young carer.
Mum:
My brother's looking for a wife, you know....
Carer:
Is he?
Mum
Oh, yes. Since his wife died, he's very lonely. He hasn't got anyone.
Carer
That's a shame
Mum
You'd be a nice wife for him. He'd like you, and you'd have a lovely life with John.
Carer
But I'm afraid I'm married already.
Mum
Oh, that doesn't matter!
Alex (who has been listening to this exchange, and decides to rescue the carer)
Mum, this young lady is a bit young for Uncle John, you know.
Mum
Why?
Alex
Well, he's 94 now......
Mum (pausing to think for a moment)
Well, I know he's fond of Wendy, and she goes out to see him all the time....... He could marry Wendy.
Alex
Mum, Wendy does love Uncle John, like a grand-daughter would, but she is his great niece! She's a close relative, and in any case, she is 50 years younger than Uncle John.
Mum (looking at Alex - and a light bulb moment happens)
Oh, I see..... Well, he can marry you, then!
Young carer and Alex collapse into laughter. Mum still thinks she has had a brilliant idea!
My Uncle John is Mum's brother, and he lives in Brisbane. Since his wife (Aunt Marguerite) died in 2003, he has been very lonely; he has no grandchildren. He manages very well, still drives and looks after himself in a retirement unit, but he would love to have a nice lady friend, to enjoy outings with, take out for lunch and maybe go to the cinema with occasionally.
Mum is aware of his situation, and tries her best to get him matched up with any lady that comes into her life.
Scene: Mum is being taken to the bathroom by a young carer.
Mum:
My brother's looking for a wife, you know....
Carer:
Is he?
Mum
Oh, yes. Since his wife died, he's very lonely. He hasn't got anyone.
Carer
That's a shame
Mum
You'd be a nice wife for him. He'd like you, and you'd have a lovely life with John.
Carer
But I'm afraid I'm married already.
Mum
Oh, that doesn't matter!
Alex (who has been listening to this exchange, and decides to rescue the carer)
Mum, this young lady is a bit young for Uncle John, you know.
Mum
Why?
Alex
Well, he's 94 now......
Mum (pausing to think for a moment)
Well, I know he's fond of Wendy, and she goes out to see him all the time....... He could marry Wendy.
Alex
Mum, Wendy does love Uncle John, like a grand-daughter would, but she is his great niece! She's a close relative, and in any case, she is 50 years younger than Uncle John.
Mum (looking at Alex - and a light bulb moment happens)
Oh, I see..... Well, he can marry you, then!
Young carer and Alex collapse into laughter. Mum still thinks she has had a brilliant idea!
Wednesday, 28 June 2017
Yet More Hospital Life - Part 5 - The Ups and Downs of Life - or, Instruments of Torture: Hoists and Banana Boards
Yet More Hospital Life - Part 5 - The Ups and Downs of Life - or, Instruments of Torture: Hoists and Banana Boards
I've already said, how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life, and we soon got accustomed to the longer journey between home and hospital, and made allowances for the more frequent traffic delays en route. Mum also got used being in hospital, and using bedpans instead of going to the bathroom.
Days turned into a week, and then two and three; Mum was terribly nervous of trying anything new, in case it jarred her ankle. She was also still in pain with her right knee, and so not very co-operative with the physiotherapists.
One morning, one of the bright, young physios brought along a beautifully smooth, shiny board. The shape and colour of a banana, Mum was told this would help her to get out of bed, and spend some time sitting in the chair.
Mum looked suspiciously at the board, and then at the PT. "How I am going to do that?" she asked.
"Don't worry!" the physiotherapist assured her, "I'll help you....."
With that, she lowered the side of the hospital bed, and managed to slide one end of the banana board underneath Mum's behind.
"Right!" she said, enthusiastically. "All you have to do now is relax, tilt yourself onto the board, let yourself go, and slide down off the bed, and on to the chair!"
I could see Mum getting tense. She didn't believe any of it; she was anxious she would go with such a rush and end up landing in the chair with a bump. There was also nothing to hold on to during the "ride." Even with the bed lowered, there was still a substantial difference in height from the bed to the chair seat.
The physiotherapist was not one to give up easily. "Come on," she said, "think how nice it will be, if you can sit in the chair for a while, instead of lying in bed all day!"
"Just a minute," said Mum, employing delaying tactics. "If this will get me from the bed onto the chair, how will I get back up into bed again?"
She had a point. It was one thing going from the higher bed to the lower chair; clearly, the banana board would not work in reverse.
"Oh, we'll get you back into bed!" The physio was reassuring. "That won't be a problem."
Well, even I could see travelling by banana board was likely to make any patient feel out of control, and I thought it was reminiscent of slides in a salt mine near Berchtesgaden in Germany.
Nearly fifty years ago, I worked in Berchtesgaden as a fashion consultant for a company called Arwa, that made pantihose (tights in the UK), stockings and various sorts of fashionable hosiery. During my time with Arwa, I worked jolly hard, especially if there was an exhibition coming up and we had a new collection to prepare, with new colours and styles; but I did have time off, and one weekend found me taking a tour of the salt mine, not far out of the town. It was fun - and I was young and reasonably adventurous, although not especially keen on heights! Some way into the tour, we were presented with the opportunity of taking a slide to get to a lower level in the mine. The slide was about 40 meters long, and formed by two long lengths of hardwood, I think probably oak, with a groove in the middle. It was worn completely smooth by the thousands of miners - and now tourists - using it over the years to get from an upper level in the mine to a lower one. We were told not to try to brake ourselves by putting a foot down on the way to the bottom; and with this instruction ringing in my ears, I climbed "aboard" the slide. With a few people in front, and a few more behind me, there was no turning back now! - and I reclined in the groove. Given a gentle push by the guide, we skimmed down to the lower level. The only trouble was, as we got going, the rate of travel speeded up, and for someone not used to it, the slide was a nerve-racking experience.
A bit further on in the tour, another slide loomed: "This is a baby slide!" the guide laughed. Yes, it was shorter, and I thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound!" and had another go.
If you had to ride the slides every day, I am sure you would get accustomed to them; but Mum, at 92, had an altogether different view of the banana board.
In the end, she tried it - once. As the physio got her positioned further onto the board, and she started to slide, Mum gave an ear-piercing scream as her weight propelled her downhill into the chair. Mum sat there shaking, and I covered her up with a rug and told her she had done very well. That was the last time she agreed to slide on the board; getting her back into bed was another issue altogether.
Mum sat in the armchair for hours. The material covering the seat was obviously something that could be cleaned and disinfected, so it felt cold and hard, and was not very comfortable. I got a rug for Mum and covered her knees, someone else found a foot stool, and there she stayed.
At least it made a change for Mum, to be sitting up in a chair whilst she ate the dinner I brought her; I made every encouraging remark I could think of, pointing out it was much better than being propped up in bed!
However, soon the time came when Mum had to get back into bed; and that involved using a hoist. Hoists are operated by two people, and I know nurses, carers, and everyone involved in their use, have to be well trained, but I do wonder if, before they are let loose on patients, they are also required to experience being hoisted themselves. If not, they should be. Even with the most helpful and reassuring operators around you, it's scary being fitted into a sling and then hooked up to the "crane," lifted out of a chair and swung over to the bed. Being told to sit still and not move was not helpful; Mum wriggled and jiggled and tried to hang on to something, but there really wasn't anything to hang on to.
It might have taken only a few minutes, but in terms of stress and fear, it felt like a long time before Mum was safely deposited back on the bed.
I've already said, how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life, and we soon got accustomed to the longer journey between home and hospital, and made allowances for the more frequent traffic delays en route. Mum also got used being in hospital, and using bedpans instead of going to the bathroom.
Days turned into a week, and then two and three; Mum was terribly nervous of trying anything new, in case it jarred her ankle. She was also still in pain with her right knee, and so not very co-operative with the physiotherapists.
One morning, one of the bright, young physios brought along a beautifully smooth, shiny board. The shape and colour of a banana, Mum was told this would help her to get out of bed, and spend some time sitting in the chair.
Mum looked suspiciously at the board, and then at the PT. "How I am going to do that?" she asked.
"Don't worry!" the physiotherapist assured her, "I'll help you....."
With that, she lowered the side of the hospital bed, and managed to slide one end of the banana board underneath Mum's behind.
"Right!" she said, enthusiastically. "All you have to do now is relax, tilt yourself onto the board, let yourself go, and slide down off the bed, and on to the chair!"
I could see Mum getting tense. She didn't believe any of it; she was anxious she would go with such a rush and end up landing in the chair with a bump. There was also nothing to hold on to during the "ride." Even with the bed lowered, there was still a substantial difference in height from the bed to the chair seat.
The physiotherapist was not one to give up easily. "Come on," she said, "think how nice it will be, if you can sit in the chair for a while, instead of lying in bed all day!"
"Just a minute," said Mum, employing delaying tactics. "If this will get me from the bed onto the chair, how will I get back up into bed again?"
She had a point. It was one thing going from the higher bed to the lower chair; clearly, the banana board would not work in reverse.
"Oh, we'll get you back into bed!" The physio was reassuring. "That won't be a problem."
Well, even I could see travelling by banana board was likely to make any patient feel out of control, and I thought it was reminiscent of slides in a salt mine near Berchtesgaden in Germany.
Nearly fifty years ago, I worked in Berchtesgaden as a fashion consultant for a company called Arwa, that made pantihose (tights in the UK), stockings and various sorts of fashionable hosiery. During my time with Arwa, I worked jolly hard, especially if there was an exhibition coming up and we had a new collection to prepare, with new colours and styles; but I did have time off, and one weekend found me taking a tour of the salt mine, not far out of the town. It was fun - and I was young and reasonably adventurous, although not especially keen on heights! Some way into the tour, we were presented with the opportunity of taking a slide to get to a lower level in the mine. The slide was about 40 meters long, and formed by two long lengths of hardwood, I think probably oak, with a groove in the middle. It was worn completely smooth by the thousands of miners - and now tourists - using it over the years to get from an upper level in the mine to a lower one. We were told not to try to brake ourselves by putting a foot down on the way to the bottom; and with this instruction ringing in my ears, I climbed "aboard" the slide. With a few people in front, and a few more behind me, there was no turning back now! - and I reclined in the groove. Given a gentle push by the guide, we skimmed down to the lower level. The only trouble was, as we got going, the rate of travel speeded up, and for someone not used to it, the slide was a nerve-racking experience.
A bit further on in the tour, another slide loomed: "This is a baby slide!" the guide laughed. Yes, it was shorter, and I thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound!" and had another go.
If you had to ride the slides every day, I am sure you would get accustomed to them; but Mum, at 92, had an altogether different view of the banana board.
In the end, she tried it - once. As the physio got her positioned further onto the board, and she started to slide, Mum gave an ear-piercing scream as her weight propelled her downhill into the chair. Mum sat there shaking, and I covered her up with a rug and told her she had done very well. That was the last time she agreed to slide on the board; getting her back into bed was another issue altogether.
Mum sat in the armchair for hours. The material covering the seat was obviously something that could be cleaned and disinfected, so it felt cold and hard, and was not very comfortable. I got a rug for Mum and covered her knees, someone else found a foot stool, and there she stayed.
At least it made a change for Mum, to be sitting up in a chair whilst she ate the dinner I brought her; I made every encouraging remark I could think of, pointing out it was much better than being propped up in bed!
However, soon the time came when Mum had to get back into bed; and that involved using a hoist. Hoists are operated by two people, and I know nurses, carers, and everyone involved in their use, have to be well trained, but I do wonder if, before they are let loose on patients, they are also required to experience being hoisted themselves. If not, they should be. Even with the most helpful and reassuring operators around you, it's scary being fitted into a sling and then hooked up to the "crane," lifted out of a chair and swung over to the bed. Being told to sit still and not move was not helpful; Mum wriggled and jiggled and tried to hang on to something, but there really wasn't anything to hang on to.
It might have taken only a few minutes, but in terms of stress and fear, it felt like a long time before Mum was safely deposited back on the bed.
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