Wednesday, July 17th, 2013
In the morning, I get up and find no further messages from my mother or my sister or mum's carers, although I still suspect that things are far from being well.
There is, however, a message from mum's former colleague, saying that she plans to visit her in hospital today, so that's another call that I need to try and remember to make from work this morning, although that turns into one of the nicer conversations of a grim old day. My sister had been unavailable yesterday evening because of a family crisis at her end of the country, so now I feel even more wicked for asking her to do point duty in talking to the Care Home itself...
Four days... Four whole days she managed to be out of hospital before going into crisis mode and laying another massive guilt trip at my door, however, my sister's morning call to the Home itself does a lot to reassure us, and we are told that a doctor has been and seen mum and that she seems "back to normal" this morning and is a "lovely lady..."
[INTERLUDE: Some good advice I was given: It is unwise to just assume that the doctors and nurses in the hospital and the carers in the Intermediate Care system actually have my mother's best interests at heart. Most of the time they're just fire-fighting, trying to solve the problems that are happening now, and not looking at the "bigger picture" - hoping instead to make such things "somebody else's problem" so I need to push harder to make them aware of what needs to be done, even if I'm not a person who enjoys confrontation in any form.]
Interestingly enough, it seems that, when patients are released into Community Care, one thing that the Care Environment is not given is a list of whatever complaints and conditions the patient might have, which kind of seems a little odd...
Meanwhile, I still dread the evening visit that I had planned, because I know that I'm not going to be a particularly popular bunny...
So, on the hottest day of the year so far I arrive to find that mum's in the middle of being cleaned up after an incident, with huge "infection control" notices stuck to her door, and am given a lecture about whether I understand what this means by a passing staff member who also adds that mum is on a "toast only" diet until it gets sorted out. I am expected to wear an apron, and when I ask where they are I'm told "They should be in the room" but, of course, it turns out that they're not, so I spend my visit standing by the window as far from mum as possible and avoiding too much contact.
Mum is not happy, and "hates it in here" because "nobody care" to which I retort angrily. She's also very unhappy with the mobile phone because "nobody told her" how to work it. I get a long list of complaints about the staff saying "rude things" about "This one won't get up" and being stuck on the commode for three-quarters of an hour, and the fact that they won't feed her any proper food or even a cup of tea. The fact that she has a cup of tea in front of her does not escape me and, when the staff member comes to clear away the plates, she is told that she can drink it, and does so, gratefully, whilst telling me that she hates the orange juice she also has to drink.
Things calm down a little after this and she tells me about the "lovely"doctors and the "lovely" night staff, and I remind her that my sister is due to arrive tomorrow and that she will no doubt have more time (and patience) to talk her through the phone calls and order things she needs from the internet whilst she stays at mum's flat next week. I try to explain how difficult the job is for the staff, and how understaffed and under-budgeted they are and, whilst I accept that the situation is very frustrating and unpleasant for her, we simply have to try and make the best of it and see it as a stepping stone to going home.
To mum, however, the idea of "going home" is still an alien concept, and her thoughts upon this have now shifted from "I don't think I'm ever getting out of here" (meaning the hospital) to "I don't think I'm ever getting out of here" (meaning the Care Home...)
A church friend of hers then pops her head around the "Infection Zone" door to say "hello" and, of course, mum is as nice as pie to her...
I'm also asked if mum's upset the beloved who she hasn't seen in a while (because the new job is keeping her very busy) and we are, at least, wished a happy holiday (although I still might pop in with my sister tomorrow) and told "not to worry" about mum. When I remind her that we're bound to worry, that is taken as a criticism of her, too, but then it's that kind of a day it seems.
Interestingly enough, it seems that, when patients are released into Community Care, one thing that the Care Environment is not given is a list of whatever complaints and conditions the patient might have, which kind of seems a little odd...
Meanwhile, I still dread the evening visit that I had planned, because I know that I'm not going to be a particularly popular bunny...
So, on the hottest day of the year so far I arrive to find that mum's in the middle of being cleaned up after an incident, with huge "infection control" notices stuck to her door, and am given a lecture about whether I understand what this means by a passing staff member who also adds that mum is on a "toast only" diet until it gets sorted out. I am expected to wear an apron, and when I ask where they are I'm told "They should be in the room" but, of course, it turns out that they're not, so I spend my visit standing by the window as far from mum as possible and avoiding too much contact.
Mum is not happy, and "hates it in here" because "nobody care" to which I retort angrily. She's also very unhappy with the mobile phone because "nobody told her" how to work it. I get a long list of complaints about the staff saying "rude things" about "This one won't get up" and being stuck on the commode for three-quarters of an hour, and the fact that they won't feed her any proper food or even a cup of tea. The fact that she has a cup of tea in front of her does not escape me and, when the staff member comes to clear away the plates, she is told that she can drink it, and does so, gratefully, whilst telling me that she hates the orange juice she also has to drink.
Things calm down a little after this and she tells me about the "lovely"doctors and the "lovely" night staff, and I remind her that my sister is due to arrive tomorrow and that she will no doubt have more time (and patience) to talk her through the phone calls and order things she needs from the internet whilst she stays at mum's flat next week. I try to explain how difficult the job is for the staff, and how understaffed and under-budgeted they are and, whilst I accept that the situation is very frustrating and unpleasant for her, we simply have to try and make the best of it and see it as a stepping stone to going home.
To mum, however, the idea of "going home" is still an alien concept, and her thoughts upon this have now shifted from "I don't think I'm ever getting out of here" (meaning the hospital) to "I don't think I'm ever getting out of here" (meaning the Care Home...)
A church friend of hers then pops her head around the "Infection Zone" door to say "hello" and, of course, mum is as nice as pie to her...
I'm also asked if mum's upset the beloved who she hasn't seen in a while (because the new job is keeping her very busy) and we are, at least, wished a happy holiday (although I still might pop in with my sister tomorrow) and told "not to worry" about mum. When I remind her that we're bound to worry, that is taken as a criticism of her, too, but then it's that kind of a day it seems.
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