C
Chesca
Guest
Dear All thank you for this space
I am so consumed with grief, there is nowhere else to go; nobody close to me to hear what they haven't heard before; the glazed, bored, here-we-go-again eyes, the what-else-do-you-expect-me-to-do? mantra. 'What I expect you to do is for once in your life put my mother's needs first, not your me Mr Nice Cop you Nasty Cop that makes me want to heave out the contents of my stomach as an exorcism of the hate I feel for you, my father. A father who always put his own needs before those of any members of his family, especially his wife, and now at the end of the day when it matters he does what she always expected he would do - let her down, not fight her corner, mustn't upset the staff they might mistreat her! Ha! the only thing mistreating my darling Mrs Pumblechook, is Mamon.
The vocational staff caring for her in a Bupa home are not allowed to practice a vocation born of their own personal experiences - ask them why they do it if you haven't already, I've found that they've been there, they know. As one fabulous (in all senses of the word) carer told me, she had nursed her mother who had a brain tumour at an early age - a smile or a thank you from her charges was enough job satisfaction for the day! Can many of us say the same? However, within the rules of Mamon, and I know this from personal professional experience, they must attend courses for this and that politically correct cause. Frankly, I never subscribed to the compensation culture but I would be quite prepared to take on these opportunists but not for any vocational staff member's transgression, aways supposing Mamon understands the charge. What we, the consumer, want for our loved ones is the closest we can get to the love and understanding we all feel for our own - it ain't going to be perfect but it ain't going to involve the interests of the shareholders' dividends. Take it from me, if you can afford it, find a small private place out of the plc ethos - a little like the chattering classes do for their children's education. ....Should we write a handbook?
Lest you be thinking, 'hang on, if you're so smart get her out of there: two things stop me - one, that which she married and, two, 12 months ago we urgently moved very close thinking location would prevent admission and bolster any outside agency support, but in fact not even taking that into account - at the time just a need to be on hand, take the pressure off! ....and took the first available place; spacially brilliant for the job but three floors up and no lift........but it's secure and to those who say ' oooooh, but your life won't be your own', my life ain't my own; it's 2.19 in the morning and here I am. I think in separating the emotional (for which I thank you for this space) the practical issue is that I do not belive that Pumblechook is in the place right for her just yet, (she was shifted by the hospital pdq, as indicated by the social worker who always gets the blame for bed blocking) but how do I seek to have her reassessed and placed in a more benign environment for these months. I need to be told!
I won't suppose to speak for the feelings of others - I read enough here to know that grief, bereavement, call it what you will, are such richly diverse emotions - but is it too much to hope, having accepted the inevitability of dementia such that to be at home any longer will present a risk; that once in the home not even really of one's choice, my mother is in a mad house far too early; she can feed herself, change herself if allowed, read though not necessarily absorb - resents the instrusion of somebody trying to change a pad which she doesn't need, firstly because she knows when she needs to pee - can read just can't find the toilet in time and is on water tablets! for which nobody can account despite them being unprescribed earlier - I am told she is ALLOWED! four pads a day! ALLOWED? Pumblechook pays for this, has always paid her way. Four water infections in four months! No antibacterial wipes when another pad is whizzed on. It ain't the four pads is it? It is the labour instensivity of changing the four pads. We have our own bundle of pads but this is resented. Once when seeking to dispose of a soiled pad in the locked sluice room, a member of staff suggested that perhaps I could take it home. Nae problem, nae carrier bag!
I was called by Pumblechook's nursing home at 9.30 p.m. two weeks ago tonight because she had had an 'accident' and needed to go to hospital; they apologised but needed somebody to go with her as they were short staffed! I have always emphasised that I will attend any outside appointments regardless of home staff necessarily in attendance as I am used to her fears and surely to Christ it must be acknowledged - I have looked after her for the best part of five years, I know how to reassure her when she's afraid - it's easy, she taught me how to care for a loved one ever since I was a child.
The leg injury? Nobody knows what happened, the wound may result in a possible skin graft viz the A&E doctor, but they can categorically state it was an 'accident'. As anyone briefed in basic law will tell you, if you 'don't know what happened' you cannot state 'categorically' . My beef ain't with the staff, as I said earlier. It's with the accountability of the management of a major 'care provider' (read the PR ****) that cannot provide the care promised.
On taking my mother to hospital she was in a personal state of hygiene that would have shamed her (thank you the fabulous ambulance staff and the doctor - I swear he was only 15!; and John, the nurse at the major inner city hospital heaving with serious emergencies who treated Pumblechook with such dignity and kindness it makes me cry as I write this, he cleaned and changed that which she had worn for the best part of four hours - I checked her records - ('four pads a day you know' per the home - she stank not only of pee, had **** herself and stunk of BO) all remarked that according to the documentation she required 24 hour attention - the pause hung heavily pregnant in the air.
And still nobody knew what had happened, the matron hadn't delegated to anybody with sufficient nouse to say 'leave it with me, one way or the other I'll get back to you'. For the delegatee, the Matron was asleep, after all it was four o'clock in the morning. So I suggested that given that I was not asleep given her cavalier regard to her charges that perhaps it was time she was awake. The delegatee couldn't bring herself to do so but, 'back against the wall', gave me her mobile phone number. So I phoned her - I just hope she was having the best sex of her life at the time! Subsequently the **** hit but, given her EMI unit stunk like the Ape house at Chester Zoo, it probably made her feel kind of homesick! Since I mentioned it, the place doesn't quite smell the same.....maybe she has gone home!
The truth of the matter is that nobody has ever given to us as a family a true diagnoses of Pumblechook's statet; no definition - 'there are so many forms of dementia' are the answers we receive. Drugs? 'Why do you need to know'?. I read with almost envy those messages that start .....[my loved one] 'recently diagnosed with vascular dementia', etc., etc.
Tired and old as I know her husband is, I look after him so I know, I wish he's just hand over the power to us to ensure her rights. Actually, I suppose I believe in doing so we will be able to improve the future for ourselves and other loved ones.
As a parting shot, in a long distance phone conversation with one of Pumblechook's other daughter's this evening, she was upset to tell me that her favourite cat had died recently and she couldn't tell anybody because the pain of leaving the vet without the cat ever coming home again was too much to bear. She couldn't possibly speak about it, she was sick of having red eyes from crying! Quel tragedia!
Regards. Chesca
I am so consumed with grief, there is nowhere else to go; nobody close to me to hear what they haven't heard before; the glazed, bored, here-we-go-again eyes, the what-else-do-you-expect-me-to-do? mantra. 'What I expect you to do is for once in your life put my mother's needs first, not your me Mr Nice Cop you Nasty Cop that makes me want to heave out the contents of my stomach as an exorcism of the hate I feel for you, my father. A father who always put his own needs before those of any members of his family, especially his wife, and now at the end of the day when it matters he does what she always expected he would do - let her down, not fight her corner, mustn't upset the staff they might mistreat her! Ha! the only thing mistreating my darling Mrs Pumblechook, is Mamon.
The vocational staff caring for her in a Bupa home are not allowed to practice a vocation born of their own personal experiences - ask them why they do it if you haven't already, I've found that they've been there, they know. As one fabulous (in all senses of the word) carer told me, she had nursed her mother who had a brain tumour at an early age - a smile or a thank you from her charges was enough job satisfaction for the day! Can many of us say the same? However, within the rules of Mamon, and I know this from personal professional experience, they must attend courses for this and that politically correct cause. Frankly, I never subscribed to the compensation culture but I would be quite prepared to take on these opportunists but not for any vocational staff member's transgression, aways supposing Mamon understands the charge. What we, the consumer, want for our loved ones is the closest we can get to the love and understanding we all feel for our own - it ain't going to be perfect but it ain't going to involve the interests of the shareholders' dividends. Take it from me, if you can afford it, find a small private place out of the plc ethos - a little like the chattering classes do for their children's education. ....Should we write a handbook?
Lest you be thinking, 'hang on, if you're so smart get her out of there: two things stop me - one, that which she married and, two, 12 months ago we urgently moved very close thinking location would prevent admission and bolster any outside agency support, but in fact not even taking that into account - at the time just a need to be on hand, take the pressure off! ....and took the first available place; spacially brilliant for the job but three floors up and no lift........but it's secure and to those who say ' oooooh, but your life won't be your own', my life ain't my own; it's 2.19 in the morning and here I am. I think in separating the emotional (for which I thank you for this space) the practical issue is that I do not belive that Pumblechook is in the place right for her just yet, (she was shifted by the hospital pdq, as indicated by the social worker who always gets the blame for bed blocking) but how do I seek to have her reassessed and placed in a more benign environment for these months. I need to be told!
I won't suppose to speak for the feelings of others - I read enough here to know that grief, bereavement, call it what you will, are such richly diverse emotions - but is it too much to hope, having accepted the inevitability of dementia such that to be at home any longer will present a risk; that once in the home not even really of one's choice, my mother is in a mad house far too early; she can feed herself, change herself if allowed, read though not necessarily absorb - resents the instrusion of somebody trying to change a pad which she doesn't need, firstly because she knows when she needs to pee - can read just can't find the toilet in time and is on water tablets! for which nobody can account despite them being unprescribed earlier - I am told she is ALLOWED! four pads a day! ALLOWED? Pumblechook pays for this, has always paid her way. Four water infections in four months! No antibacterial wipes when another pad is whizzed on. It ain't the four pads is it? It is the labour instensivity of changing the four pads. We have our own bundle of pads but this is resented. Once when seeking to dispose of a soiled pad in the locked sluice room, a member of staff suggested that perhaps I could take it home. Nae problem, nae carrier bag!
I was called by Pumblechook's nursing home at 9.30 p.m. two weeks ago tonight because she had had an 'accident' and needed to go to hospital; they apologised but needed somebody to go with her as they were short staffed! I have always emphasised that I will attend any outside appointments regardless of home staff necessarily in attendance as I am used to her fears and surely to Christ it must be acknowledged - I have looked after her for the best part of five years, I know how to reassure her when she's afraid - it's easy, she taught me how to care for a loved one ever since I was a child.
The leg injury? Nobody knows what happened, the wound may result in a possible skin graft viz the A&E doctor, but they can categorically state it was an 'accident'. As anyone briefed in basic law will tell you, if you 'don't know what happened' you cannot state 'categorically' . My beef ain't with the staff, as I said earlier. It's with the accountability of the management of a major 'care provider' (read the PR ****) that cannot provide the care promised.
On taking my mother to hospital she was in a personal state of hygiene that would have shamed her (thank you the fabulous ambulance staff and the doctor - I swear he was only 15!; and John, the nurse at the major inner city hospital heaving with serious emergencies who treated Pumblechook with such dignity and kindness it makes me cry as I write this, he cleaned and changed that which she had worn for the best part of four hours - I checked her records - ('four pads a day you know' per the home - she stank not only of pee, had **** herself and stunk of BO) all remarked that according to the documentation she required 24 hour attention - the pause hung heavily pregnant in the air.
And still nobody knew what had happened, the matron hadn't delegated to anybody with sufficient nouse to say 'leave it with me, one way or the other I'll get back to you'. For the delegatee, the Matron was asleep, after all it was four o'clock in the morning. So I suggested that given that I was not asleep given her cavalier regard to her charges that perhaps it was time she was awake. The delegatee couldn't bring herself to do so but, 'back against the wall', gave me her mobile phone number. So I phoned her - I just hope she was having the best sex of her life at the time! Subsequently the **** hit but, given her EMI unit stunk like the Ape house at Chester Zoo, it probably made her feel kind of homesick! Since I mentioned it, the place doesn't quite smell the same.....maybe she has gone home!
The truth of the matter is that nobody has ever given to us as a family a true diagnoses of Pumblechook's statet; no definition - 'there are so many forms of dementia' are the answers we receive. Drugs? 'Why do you need to know'?. I read with almost envy those messages that start .....[my loved one] 'recently diagnosed with vascular dementia', etc., etc.
Tired and old as I know her husband is, I look after him so I know, I wish he's just hand over the power to us to ensure her rights. Actually, I suppose I believe in doing so we will be able to improve the future for ourselves and other loved ones.
As a parting shot, in a long distance phone conversation with one of Pumblechook's other daughter's this evening, she was upset to tell me that her favourite cat had died recently and she couldn't tell anybody because the pain of leaving the vet without the cat ever coming home again was too much to bear. She couldn't possibly speak about it, she was sick of having red eyes from crying! Quel tragedia!
Regards. Chesca
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