Wednesday, 23 December 2015
Saturday, 12 December 2015
Thursday, 26 November 2015
So here's the thing.
I've written this a dozen different ways, but there aren't actually any easy ways to say it.
We came into Helen House last week, to try to sort out Imi's pain. We did sort out the pain; she's had a mostly very comfortable and settled week. Alleluia! But, we did that by stopping her feeds. Food or formula going in; unbearable pain and spasm and thrashing around in agony. No food; peace, smiles, calmness.
We tried tiny tasters of food. Instant pain and discomfort.
No food brings peace, but obviously it brings its own complications; Jesus may have survived 40 nights in the desert without food or water, but most of us don't have that constitution.
Imi is managing water (dioralyte). But 100 calories a day isn't sustainable in the long term.
We came home. By choice, last Thursday. With a plan for a big Road Trip to visit her best friend, and a promise of no more travelling after that.
Imi has other plans.
We planned to rest until our trip away; Imi was awake very early on Sunday, and adamant she wanted to come to church. And so we did. And it was painful, and she objected to the sermon (not on theological grounds; she just preferred the worship). She sang a little, hung around for coffee, and I discovered my elbows must have been getting dusty without me noticing.
On Monday, we had a chat (because, even through the fog of pain relief there are still times when she is awake, alert, happy, and communicative). She told me Yes, her body is wearing out. Yes, she's tired. Yes, she knows she doesn't need words to speak to Jesus (eye roll: mother you are so stupid to even question that). Yes she's ready to go with Him.
No, there's nothing she needs to do. No, there's nothing she wants to do. No, she's not sad.
I asked her about our plans for the weekend. No response.
Tuesday, Imi had the most peaceful day she's had for possibly months. Heart rate consistently very very low (for her), calmness and peace, and the carers we had visiting left early as it was so very clear she only wanted to rest with her Mennonite hymns on a loop. SE Samonte playlists on YouTube, for those who want to know what Imi's been listening to much of the time.
Yesterday (Wednesday), Imi woke up with a fever. I say Imi woke up; I mean, I woke up and found Imi with a fever. I don't think she slept on Tuesday night.
And then she started fitting.
We had big long peaceful lovely cuddles, then our nurses came and we swapped over for a bit. Imi wasn't wanting to talk to me, but gave a big yes to having a nurse cuddle before my legs fell off.
A friend came; she and I escaped the house for a short while. Imi started fitting again, I came home, and it became clear that whilst we were making plans to cancel or postpone the road trip, Imi had a different destination in mind.
One GP, three paramedics and an ambulance later, we are back at Helen House. And as we got Imi into bed here, her heart rate settled right down again, and despite the seizures she has been very calm and peaceful once more.
Some soreness last night, resolved by finding a less bright light, rolling her back onto the side she usually dislikes, stopping her dioralyte, and giving her some extra morphine.
It's now 5am; I went downstairs to see her, and she has not stirred from where she was last night.
Calm, peaceful, and clear that her work on earth is done.
Sunday, 11 October 2015
Sunday, 20 September 2015
Wednesday, 16 September 2015
Saturday, 29 August 2015
Sunday, 23 August 2015
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
Thursday, 13 August 2015
Monday, 10 August 2015
Saturday, 27 June 2015
Thursday, 30 April 2015
The rhetoric these days is awful.
It's all about "hard working families." Don't get me wrong. I think to be a hard working family is an excellent thing. But, you see, I don't think that paid work out of the house is the only work worth anything.
Let me tell you about my day. But before I do, let me tell you that this isn't just my day; it's a day I share with many of my friends, both locally and further afield.
My day starts at 6AM, when I get up and give child one her morning medication. She's usually awake; I change her, clean her, reposition her, burp her through her feeding tube, check her breathing mask is in the right place, and then put the kettle on for the first of many coffees.
6.45AM and I need to start preparations for child two's bowel washout; step one is given in her bed.
More medications mixed, clothes flung on, because at 7AM the door usually opens, and our morning carer usually turns up. I say usually, because this isn't inevitable; sometimes they are off sick - and I won't be told until they are already 30 minutes late. Sometimes there has been a timetabling error and they have been sent somewhere else. Sometimes there are traffic issues. We miss, on average, one visit a week. But today, let's assume they are here.
I unhook child two from her ventilator, and get her sitting on the toilet. I give her the rest of her bowel washout. I give her her morning medications. The carer is unable to do these tasks; they are medical not caring. I make the carer a cup of tea so she can warm her hands on it and not shock child two when she touches her. The carer meanwhile strips the bed, because it always needs changing, and gathers new clothes. Hopefully we've got a good carer this morning, and they interpret "please strip the bed" to mean remove the sheets, wipe down the mattress, place sheets by the washing machine, find clean sheets and remake the bed. Otherwise I'll be gathering soggy sheets from the bedroom floor in an hour or so's time, and hoping to remember to remake the bed at some point before bedtime.
Overnight catheter is removed and binned. Oral medication given.
I make breakfast, morning carer cajoles child two into clothes, waits for washout to work, then hoists child onto the bench, gets her cleaned up, and hopefully shouts for me to come and give the next round of medications before hoisting into wheelchair. Then it's hair, teeth, splints and shoes, bookbag and WILL YOU DRINK THAT DRINK and catheter before the bus is here, a quick kiss and a hug and an I love you, and she is off to school.
Child 1, you will note, is still in bed. Because child 1 is, to use Mr Cameron's own words, "desperately disabled." Desperately disabled in this case meaning too fragile to cope with school; the atmosphere in the classroom causes her to have difficulty breathing.
I finish coffee number two, and clear up. Foul bedding into the washing machine, then deep breath and into the bathroom to scrub the walls and floor where washout under pressure has had a certain pebble dashing effect. Scrub hands, then finish getting myself vaguely presentable and ready for the day.
And now child 1 is stirring, or is she having a seizure? Possibly both; she generally fits on waking. So I comfort her through her seizure; it's a good one, less than 30 minutes long so no need to intervene. Mental note that the neurologist's secretary has not been in touch, it's been a week, I add her to my list of calls for the morning.
Seizure over, I give a nebuliser. This is harder than it should be, because respite broke the very last of the valved T-pieces which we need to use to deliver a neb through her CPAP machine. They broke the two before that as well, despite knowing these were not being made any more and that we would not be able to get a replacement. So now we wait in the hope that a different design will be available and suitable, otherwise next time she has a chest infection, we will have to break the ventilator circuit to insert the nebuliser port, and hope this doesn't put her into too much respiratory distress. I'm quite annoyed with respite, can you tell?
It's now 10 o'clock, and child one hasn't had breakfast yet. Cereal, fruit smoothie and milk through her gastrostomy tube, then time to switch the CPAP off and hope she can breathe for herself. It's a good day; she manages the transition to room air with only a few minutes of gasping and snorting.
Stiff limbs need physiotherapy; because she's not in school any more she now only sees a physiotherapist once every six weeks in term time - six times a year, effectively. And a physio assistant once every six weeks, plus a few extra mercy visits after botox - for six weeks after we have injected poison into her arms to try to reduce the spasticity. Today is not a physio day, so that's down to me. Up and down, up and down, arms and legs, but gently with the hand which is still so inexplicably sore, despite paracetamol and ibuprofen and morphine. Stiff limbs manipulated into loose clothing, a body bent double after a night stretched out, working every muscle until the body becomes vaguely chairshaped. Into the chair, and smiles for mouthwash, eye cleaning, neck loosening, and gentle, gentle brushing of hair, wondering always just exactly what the loose roll of skin at the back of her head might be.
It's 11 o'clock, and we are both actually dressed and could leave the house if we needed to. Except of course that we can't; I need to phone the neurologist again and try to get some answers as to why seizures which have always always distorted her body in one direction are now twisting it the other way. But before I do that, I need to phone the surgery and order more meds, and before I do that, I need to phone the pharmacy and chase the drugs we ordered last week, as I cannot now remember which meds I ordered and which I did not.
I phone the pharmacy, and they promise they will deliver the drugs we did order last week. Good, because we now have only half a dose of one of them left. The pharmacist hangs up before I can check exactly what's on the list of drugs to be delivered, and now it is too late to phone the GP until after lunch.
A drink for both of us then, mine orally and child 1's through her tube. Feed the cats and fish, put the washing into the drier and the next load into the machine, and now it's lunch time. Egg and cheese and salad for child 1, pureed and pushed through her tube. Side order of paracetamol at 12.
Child 1 has now been sitting up for 2 hours; she needs to get out of her chair, have a change (more laundry) and a stretch.
2PM and it's ibuprofen time; is there enough lunch left in her stomach, or do I need to find a banana to mash? It's OK, the cheese has hung around. But now it's suppository time, and that means 40 minutes sitting on a special mesh toilet seat, followed by a nice warm shower. Oh, except that 2 PM on a Thursday also means it's teaching time; a TA from school comes out for one hour twice a week to do something educational. This week they are doing some ribbon embroidery together.
3PM and child 2 arrives home from school on her bus, tired and cross and hungry. I am for once organised; there's an egg mayo sandwich and some cucumber ready sliced and waiting for her on her table, she will be far more human once she's eaten. And had her medication.
Child 1 needs to go back to bed, and wants to lie in the dark listening to hymns. Child 2 needs just the right amount of casual attention; it is a tricky time this period after school and before bed. Too much attention and it is perceived as demands, and rejected. Too little, and the assumption is she is unloved, and rejected. There will be a temper tantrum. There always is. There may be laughter. On a good day, there is.
And so it is 4 o'clock, and 5 o'clock, and I need to make tea for child 1, and feed her, and change her, and jolly her on until she can have her medications at 6 o'clock. And then she relaxes, and the little twitches stop dancing across her face, and her arm is loose, and she is comfortable again.
And it is 7 o'clock, and I must mix up evening meds for child 2, and start her countdown til bedtime. Too soon, and she will melt down because the countdown will be too long. Too late, and she will melt down because there won't be time to have a proper countdown. Later still, and I will melt down because it is too close to my own bedtime.
And so at 19:30 precisely, child 2 will trundle her chair into her bedroom, and we will do the clothes off, PJs sometimes on, nighttime meds and procedures carried out, ventilator hooked up, clean water in a water bottle tucked into just the right fold of the sheet, long pillow tucked in just so, short pillow pushed in just exactly so, duvet adjusted for maximum cat proofing, door wedged at just exactly the right angle, hall light on, kitchen light most definitely off, wheelchair on charge, goodnight and I love you.
8 o'clock and I must hook child 1 back up to her CPAP and give her the evening neb I forgot to give earlier. She's had a great day. No suction, no emergency nebs, no extra pain relief. Oh, but she did need emergency diazepam for seizures at 4.30, forgot that bit. And finally I can sit for a bit. I'm tired, but I need to wait until 10 to give the final dose of ibuprofen, and then midnight for the last dose of paracetamol. I've just given a dose of chloral hydrate, because she's not asleep yet, just lying in bed staring at the ceiling and twitching gently.
I'm typing this at 11PM; I would ordinarily go to bed after ibuprofen o'clock, but child 2 needed turning, there's another load of washing in the machine, and Mr Cameron's comments about "hard working families" struck a bit of a nerve.
Because you see I think we're a pretty hard working family ourselves. And I think this day I have is shared by many many others locally and further afield. And I find it utterly sickening that only paid work, "proper" work is valued. Friends lives were made so much harder during this parliament thanks to the removal of child benefit from women whose husbands earned over a certain amount of money. And now I hear suggestions that the Conservatives propose to remove Carer's Allowance from Carers who don't receive Universal Credit.
Let me tell you about Carer's Allowance. Carer's Allowance is one of the lowest paid means-tested Allowances out there. It's paid to people who have caring responsibilities for more than 35 hours a week, provided they don't earn more than £110 a week in paid work. It's around £65 a week; something over £3000 a year. It's taxable. For hundreds of people, mostly women, it's just barely enough to enable them to stay at home and keep their loved one - parent, partner, child- at home too. It's money in the pockets of those women who save the country a fortune by keeping their disabled family members out of care homes and hospitals. It's little enough. To a millionaire, I suspect it's loose change, which is maybe why it's not deemed worthy of protection. But to those of us who claim it, it's the electricity bill, the replacement drier, the takeaway meal when it gets to 8PM and you haven't left the house all day and haven't actually left the house all week, and have only just managed to sit down just now, and only now because you've forgotten half the things you needed to do. Including calling the neurologist and the GP.
I'm lucky. I'll be alright. At least I hope I will - no one's suggesting losing adoption allowances just yet, although I do know there are no guarantees. But I know an awful lot of women who won't be.
I'm lucky in another way too. I get 18 hours a week of respite. Three days a week, a team of two staff - one nurse and a carer, or two nurses - turn up, and take over with child 1 for me for six hours. So that only leaves 150 hours for me to cover. Sometimes in the holidays, a third member of staff turns up so I can leave child 2 with them too. Which means that for 150 hours a week, I am doing the work of 2 or 3 members of staff. And now, in order to be a proper "hard working family" I should go out and work elsewhere too?
My day isn't finished yet, and I am pretty sure that I could phone at least six people on my contact list and find them still sitting up watching twitchy children, waiting to give meds, holding out for the end of a pumped tube feed, knowing that they need to turn their child in just another minute or so. I need to give paracetamol at midnight, and do a final reposition, turning an aching hand over to try to give some relief, aspirating a feeding tube to suck out the air my daughter cannot burp, and smooth away the wrinkles which will insist on gathering underneath her.
And then bed, and sleep, keeping an ear out for the alarms which indicate a broken connection in a breathing circuit, or dropping sats needing suction or repositioning. In the time I've written this, I've been up to tweak pillows and adjust access to water bottles, give the fourth dose of antibiotic, and silence an alarm from a humidifier that has run out of water. I'll be up again at some point between 2 and 4 to turn child 2, before tomorrow begins officially with the meds I need to give at 6AM.
When exactly should I join the ranks of the hard working, and who exactly would want to employ a woman who hasn't had a full night's sleep since 2002, and who would need more hours a week in parental leave than she'd be able to work anyway? And if he didn't mean people like me, and does in fact mean to protect those of us who care for our own "desperately disabled" children, why does it actually feel as though we are being got at?