Skip to main content

Breach of Safety

A nurse put my bed at 90-degrees without the appropriate pillows stacked under my arms to support my torso musculature. Then she badgered me to tell her what to do. I cannot tell them what to do when I'm suffocating. 

 Everybody thinks they know the problem and solution. And yet, none of them have had ALS! Funny how they football the whole issue back on me. In psychology circles, they call that behavior "blaming the victim".

What's worse about this is that there were additional participants. Another nurse and two PCT's. Their traditional approach to care is not working with me. It's harming me. They are treating very human reactions to my safety as a behavioral problem.

They all gathered around my bed while I'm struggling for air, telling me how they want to keep me safe when, in fact, they are watching me die. It's laughable if it weren't so damn tragic!

I was reported as "trying to throw myself out of bed", when in fact, I'm trying  to scoot over and position myself to grab a breath. And they keep raising up the head of the bed or they block my progress with their hands, bodies, and pillows. They try everything EXCEPT the one thing that will guaranteed calm me down. Give me air!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fall

Orange, gold, rust, burnt sienna, ochre, raw umber; the riot of fall colors, in the trees and at our booted feet; a drive in the countryside; the taste of hot apple cider on my lips; the satisfaction of a truckload of firewood we gathered and cut ourselves; elk herds on the move; hearty stews, savory soup, crusty whole-grain bread, pumpkin and gingerbread spice lattes; these are the memories I tap into the most this time of year. Cabela's fliers in the mailbox; Carhart's camo-clad hunters swarm outlying areas; mushroom garthering; huckleberry picking; logger burgers; forest service roads; cheese sandwiches on the woodstove; warm quilts, cool sheets, and flannel nightgowns; cold butt, warm heart.  Immensely grateful to have the well of memories to draw upon.

Lashing Out

Fed up. Sick of hearing, "I'm sorry."  Apologies don't erase the pain you inflict on me. You pull my pubic hair. Your nitrile gloves pull the hair from my head. Not once in a while but day in and day out. You turn me in a manner that suits you rather than in a manner that doesn't stress my body. Why won't you use the pad and sheet to turn me as one unit? Instead, you allow my body to twist as you hold me one-handed. How good you are at your job. What part of "my muscles are dying" don't you understand?

Shards Cling To

I just met my new psychologist and I already like her. I would say that it is effortless to talk to her, but talking to anyone through an augmentative and alternative communication (AAC) device takes a great deal of effort. One must think about what to say and drill it down concisely and succinctly, Then attempt to type it out with your eyes on a wonderous, but infuriating machine, and hope you nail the 'Speak' button, and not the 'Cancel' button. You're praying that the device doesn't spontaneously, disengage the eye gaze, leaving you mute and helpless. You're also praying that the calibration holds and your eyes don't tire or dry out. Aside from all of that, she did not overwhelm me with rapid fire questions, nor invade my personal space, by insisting on reading while I'm writing, instead of allowing me to "speak". Those things are huge. Counseling somebody with my disabilities, present unique challenges. I have major physical deficit...