Chapter 536 - In a Stupor
I just woke, woke to the sound of tortured cardboard. When I remember each lunch time I try to watch the international comedy presented by PBS from the USA detailing what that fool Trump has committed. And today I fell asleep, waking after the programme finished to see her attacking my plonk cabinet; more precisely pulling the bottle of Johnny Walker Green Label out of its container, then proceeding to dismember the container. "Why are you doing that?" "I want to put wool in it." "But why pull it apart?" "To get these bits out" she said, lifting the lid on the rubbish bin to show me. Then when she told me she intended to glue the box back together with timber glue tucked away in her sewing room I said that I will do that for her. I liked the box sitting on top of my cabinet reminding me of of my cousin from over in the West, a gift from earlier in the year while on a visit. the naked bottle sitting there now is simply tawdry, especially since it is empty, the contents having disappeared a glug at a time during the cold winter months.
Her leg dyskinesias were so vigorous this morning I hesitated to leave her at the Dance for Well Being group this morning while I went for batteries for my hearing aid, hardly used since my left ear was infected, only to find the "clinic" closed for staff training, both the single receptionist and one therapist I suppose. When I returned some 20 minutes later she was still kicking wildly, seated in her wheel chair. At completion when I collected her her clothing was quite damp from sweat. At home, after the loo, she was still kicking with her feet on the recliner and as she dozed the activity ceased. Some Sustagen and chocolate biscuits must have been calming, for as I dozed watching PBS she began the activity described above. The sound of a tin baking dish falling onto the floor calls me to investigate. Not a baking dish but an empty Sustagen tin I left on the bench top, knocked onto the floor while she was looking for a sharp pointed knife and hurriedly returned to the drawer. She went looking for glue in her sewing room, digging through several drawers before I noticed a yellow cased glue stick in a container on the floor. She told me that was what she intended to glue the dismembered cardboard box back together. Pointing out that PVA glue was much better, I used that instead, temporarily holding the edges together with sticky tape. Once secure, I imagine the misshapen box will be thrown out.
When I began the 6AM pump cassette change etc on Monday 14th October I was surprised to find the cassette tubing was screwed into the side port of the PEG stoma fitting. Had she done that during the night or had I mis-connected it at 1750 the previous evening? The latter I suppose. So the duodopa had been pumped into her bowel rather than her small intestine for 12 hours, ending up in much the same place but I imagine its uptake may have been poor, as my notes for that day indicate; poor mobility getting her up, did two turds into the commode bowl (a good thing), needed to slide her off the commode onto her bed to complete dressing her after a shower, wanted to lay down again. By lunch time things were normal again; she had been cleaning in a corner of the room for more than an hour, mid afternoon she sorted puzzle books again, a snooze for awhile then she trimmed an edge on a piece of fabric.
Concerned about her lack of bowel activity and excessive sweating, on Wednesday I gave her several electrolyte tablets in water, insisting she drink this as well as other fluids. I made an appointment for her to see the GP the next afternoon. Fortunately, shortly before I took her to the GP appointment she had the "trots" so I left her at home while I made the appointment on my own. I described what had been happening with fluid intake etc. He suggested that she may have had constipated diarrhoea and to ensure she drinks sufficient fluids. Then he gave me a script for another blood test which I am yet to follow up.
A few days ago a completed an on line survey from UNSW about carer welfare, taking about 30 minutes. I did not bother to keep a copy of my responses. In a section about issues causing carer stress I think I only gave a really high rating to a question asking my response to serious health issues about myself. I have been thinking about that more often lately, perhaps as a result of my left foot fasciitis and the thought of being laid up (with better shoes and inserts it's almost resolved). For if I'm immobile then she will have a stint, or longer, in a nursing home. And I begin debating with myself whether it better I or she "goes first". I have little wish to contemplate either situation.
I continue to bandage the toes on her left foot to protect the small scabs on the two toes. The scabs are quite dry and hard but I don't wish to see them knocked off. Over in the suburban development a cafe has opened and our two visits there have been pleasant. I had hoped we might have lunch there today but her dyskinesia problems decided against that. Tomorrow a check up at the ophthalmologist will show her eye problems only need a new pair of reading glasses to finish the job. She has been reading small print but how well I have no idea.
Having finished scribbling here I went to see how she was; needed her feet up again and asked me to vacuum the portion of her sewing room carpet covered in small pieces of wool and fibre. The remnants of a knitted blanket "needing fixing" that she brought home several years ago from the Wild Dog care group she once attended. Wool of various colours had been knitted into small squares then stitched together to form a rug; the sort of thing well meaning people make for geriatrics to drape over their legs while seated in comfortable chairs. In her mind there was something wrong with this rug she brought home, from time to time inspecting it yet never getting around to the "fixing". I suspect not all the squares were the same size. Several weeks ago she seriously began the fixing. She began scissoring the squares apart, hacking into the squares and doing so required the loose threads to be pulled apart and dropped on the floor. She continued doing this for several hours at a time, over several days. What has happened to the remains of the rug I'm unsure. From time to time bulging plastic bags are marked for the garbage bin. With all her activities, in her mind's eye she sees that an action needs doing yet is unable to stop the action once it goes wrong. I am puzzled that she never becomes upset about what I see as failures. It pleases me that many of her stitched projects are stored away, only occasionally being displayed to new carers from Wild Dog when she seems to relive the pleasure of seeing things well done, even if a decade or more ago.
Her leg dyskinesias were so vigorous this morning I hesitated to leave her at the Dance for Well Being group this morning while I went for batteries for my hearing aid, hardly used since my left ear was infected, only to find the "clinic" closed for staff training, both the single receptionist and one therapist I suppose. When I returned some 20 minutes later she was still kicking wildly, seated in her wheel chair. At completion when I collected her her clothing was quite damp from sweat. At home, after the loo, she was still kicking with her feet on the recliner and as she dozed the activity ceased. Some Sustagen and chocolate biscuits must have been calming, for as I dozed watching PBS she began the activity described above. The sound of a tin baking dish falling onto the floor calls me to investigate. Not a baking dish but an empty Sustagen tin I left on the bench top, knocked onto the floor while she was looking for a sharp pointed knife and hurriedly returned to the drawer. She went looking for glue in her sewing room, digging through several drawers before I noticed a yellow cased glue stick in a container on the floor. She told me that was what she intended to glue the dismembered cardboard box back together. Pointing out that PVA glue was much better, I used that instead, temporarily holding the edges together with sticky tape. Once secure, I imagine the misshapen box will be thrown out.
When I began the 6AM pump cassette change etc on Monday 14th October I was surprised to find the cassette tubing was screwed into the side port of the PEG stoma fitting. Had she done that during the night or had I mis-connected it at 1750 the previous evening? The latter I suppose. So the duodopa had been pumped into her bowel rather than her small intestine for 12 hours, ending up in much the same place but I imagine its uptake may have been poor, as my notes for that day indicate; poor mobility getting her up, did two turds into the commode bowl (a good thing), needed to slide her off the commode onto her bed to complete dressing her after a shower, wanted to lay down again. By lunch time things were normal again; she had been cleaning in a corner of the room for more than an hour, mid afternoon she sorted puzzle books again, a snooze for awhile then she trimmed an edge on a piece of fabric.
Concerned about her lack of bowel activity and excessive sweating, on Wednesday I gave her several electrolyte tablets in water, insisting she drink this as well as other fluids. I made an appointment for her to see the GP the next afternoon. Fortunately, shortly before I took her to the GP appointment she had the "trots" so I left her at home while I made the appointment on my own. I described what had been happening with fluid intake etc. He suggested that she may have had constipated diarrhoea and to ensure she drinks sufficient fluids. Then he gave me a script for another blood test which I am yet to follow up.
A few days ago a completed an on line survey from UNSW about carer welfare, taking about 30 minutes. I did not bother to keep a copy of my responses. In a section about issues causing carer stress I think I only gave a really high rating to a question asking my response to serious health issues about myself. I have been thinking about that more often lately, perhaps as a result of my left foot fasciitis and the thought of being laid up (with better shoes and inserts it's almost resolved). For if I'm immobile then she will have a stint, or longer, in a nursing home. And I begin debating with myself whether it better I or she "goes first". I have little wish to contemplate either situation.
I continue to bandage the toes on her left foot to protect the small scabs on the two toes. The scabs are quite dry and hard but I don't wish to see them knocked off. Over in the suburban development a cafe has opened and our two visits there have been pleasant. I had hoped we might have lunch there today but her dyskinesia problems decided against that. Tomorrow a check up at the ophthalmologist will show her eye problems only need a new pair of reading glasses to finish the job. She has been reading small print but how well I have no idea.
Having finished scribbling here I went to see how she was; needed her feet up again and asked me to vacuum the portion of her sewing room carpet covered in small pieces of wool and fibre. The remnants of a knitted blanket "needing fixing" that she brought home several years ago from the Wild Dog care group she once attended. Wool of various colours had been knitted into small squares then stitched together to form a rug; the sort of thing well meaning people make for geriatrics to drape over their legs while seated in comfortable chairs. In her mind there was something wrong with this rug she brought home, from time to time inspecting it yet never getting around to the "fixing". I suspect not all the squares were the same size. Several weeks ago she seriously began the fixing. She began scissoring the squares apart, hacking into the squares and doing so required the loose threads to be pulled apart and dropped on the floor. She continued doing this for several hours at a time, over several days. What has happened to the remains of the rug I'm unsure. From time to time bulging plastic bags are marked for the garbage bin. With all her activities, in her mind's eye she sees that an action needs doing yet is unable to stop the action once it goes wrong. I am puzzled that she never becomes upset about what I see as failures. It pleases me that many of her stitched projects are stored away, only occasionally being displayed to new carers from Wild Dog when she seems to relive the pleasure of seeing things well done, even if a decade or more ago.
posted by Kilpike | 4:06 pm
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