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.

I Remember...

I remember catching fireflies,  putting them in a jar, as a girl of five. I picked pears off a tree that overhung an alleyway on my route home from school, then enjoyed the forbidden fruit. .I had a golden cat who chased a gray mouse through our living room sending my mother, 3-year old sister, and me screaming atop the sofa and chairs. We lived in a farmhouse and I watched Romper Room. A daddy longlegs skittered across my dirty kid legs as I teeter-tottered on a broken kitchen chair back. I played grocery store and laid out a bedroll for group nap time in preschool. We lived in an apartment attached to a bakery. My maternal grandparents visited and a photo was snapped. Grandma held Dawn and Grandpa held me. I held Grandpa's chin. Walking through the back of the flour-caked kitchen, I saw scrumptious pastries and colorful toys stuck in the cupcakes with my hungry kids eyes. We lived in a two-story apartment building next door to a large farmer's field.  That field was my...

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?