Welfare check

Circling Back

This week I thought I’d circle back to last October. I read a recent post where I wasn’t sure I finished the storyline I was trying to share.

As you know, life is busy when you’re one-handed. And I seem to only ever skim the surface on some topics until I hear back from others or other people do their jobs allowing me to get some items ticked off my lists.

Note, Lists, plural, not singular. Don’t even bother creating a list these days. What’s the damn point?

Some of you may recall October ’25 I had my third cerebral angiogram? Yeah, hate those fucking things. That’s the one where they pass a wire up from your artery in your groin, up through your heart and into the arteries in and around your brain. When placed in said arteries, they release little amounts of contrast or iodine. It’s hot, others have told me it’s actually cold. I don’t know if they have had one but I’m saying it’s hot because it feels like it’s on fire. In all the parts of your head that shouldn’t be on fire.

This was the procedure that has me now making bold statements such as “Helen cannot be Phenerganed”

As preparation for the Angio, as I’ve mentioned I’ve had two previously. I reacted very badly to the first, where my blood pressure dropped in the procedure and a nurse literally started running round the room in a panic. Like, her running was going to help at all, or I was not awake and witnessing her panic.

Seriously, I’m right here and I’m awake and conscious. Don’t panic, it does not help me stay calmer. So, I had a reaction to the contrast and the third Angio I took an antihistamine twelve hours before and another an hour before.

Once at the hospital and in the pre-surgical area a discussion was had, with a nurse with a messy haircut and tattoo’s up both her arms. She was about my age or older and a particular tattoo looked like a purple bruise on her arm.

Think I’ve met this nurse before because I think I’ve had this conversation before. But not recently. I asked if it was a bruise and she informed me it was just a bad tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos, but I know they all tell a story of significance to them. Her arms were a canvas of simple lines and smudges. Hard to forget.

And the discussion was had with the medical registrar about “Giving me a little something” Another discussion about whether they would use an artery through my groin or my right arm. As I only have the use of my right arm it was important I ask if I would be able to use my arm after? He told me it would be a little numb at which point I insisted please use my groin.

I know it sounds wrong so I will explain at the top of your leg, both legs just next to your groin, or snatch as I prefer, is the artery that provides blood to your legs. They give you a local anesthetic and use a scalpel to slice open that location where they then feed into it a wire. I’m getting off topic. So, Phenergan.

It allows you to be mildly sedated could be the easiest way to describe it. I was calm and conscious and aware of all the things happening. I didn’t like it, but you just lie there and let stuff happen. One particular blast of the iodine I knew I had pee’d. I know, really highbrow stuff here. It’s not so easy while being punched in the head from the inside and lying in a coolish room in nothing but a pair of tied on paper underpants, and a cotton hospital gown and a light blanket. But modesty persists and I felt compelled to mention.

Just an FYI, Doctors couldn’t care less as the area they were interested in was purely my brain, not my comfort or dignity. I know when I tried to communicate this situation to the registrar, I was barely understandable. He told me to repeat for the nurse and I was again, not understandable. It was forgotten until much later.

Hours later, my carer returned and I was not ready to be released. As her shift was over and I would later learn how she had tried to push to extend her shift to get me home.

Apparently, all three of my carer agencies had been contacted to see if I could have a carer stay overnight with me. My then support coordinator who had stated her boss had told her to turn off her phone at 4pm so she was officially off duty. Apparently, I was meant to have a friend stay over with me, but nobody thought to tell me.

My next of kin, my mother is in her mid-seventies at this point and should not be expected to race down to care for me at 6pm. Not when she lives 3.5 hours’ drive away. They should have found a bed for me over night.

The kind nurse had tried to sit me up to get my clothes on me and I kept just falling down onto my back. My carer reporting to me later she offered her opinion in the form of a welfare check. “Helen is not OK!” I know right.

And I’m still not to the point of explaining how young male ambulance personnel was standing at the end of my bed while I was lying there cold and naked. It’s a very good thing I’ve got a good memory.

Alas, the owner of my third carer provider came to be my carer to get me home and settled. I ended up only being with that company for six months however that day, I was put into a wheelchair and wheeled down to the carpark under the hospital. I recall thinking it was too late to ask for a jab of tramadol as my left eye hurt and that’s the basic sign of a migraine these days and a jab of tramadol takes thirty minutes to kick in and would knock me out within that time so I could sleep it off.

Then I was in the car, no tramadol. I ride shotgun, front seat passenger. I can’t get my left foot with the AFO into a backseat, and my brain does not like motion. I have motion sickness at the best of times. Barely able to put words together I gave directions to my home. I directed the driver to pull under the building, so it was easier to get out.

BTW, I was in my pyjamas and my new black merino wool jacket if you were wondering. So, not being dropped in a clear way on a busy street was some basic dignity.

Went inside, upstairs. I remember sitting like a zombie on the couch. I remember constantly asking my carer who she was/what her name was? Took off some layers and had a shower. Learned the next day said carer did not follow any of the hand over notes, as I was not supposed to have a shower.

I was home and alone around 8pm as my carer had asked where my spare room was for her to sleep. My second bedroom is a study and definitely does not have a bed in it. I had offered her the couch to kip on. Kip is a British term I picked up in 1994 when I travelled there. It’s to have a nap/or a sleep. She declined.

Probably should mention, an overnight shift costs a great deal more. I’ve never needed one thankfully, but there is a financial difference between what considered an “Active” or a “Non-Active” shift. An “Active” shift means you will not get to sleep; your client is high needs. Not for the faint hearted. She did not stay over but left a few notes that she had left at 8pm after I recall discussing I would just go to bed and sleep.

I believe part of the reason you are suggested to have someone with you so you don’t sign some million-dollar contract in a state not for making wise financial situations you can never undo. Because that’s likely to happen, in no world ever.