That delayed blog post is difficult to write. I don’t mean the topic is difficult. (It is.) And I don’t mean I’ve had trouble working out what to write. (I have.) On top of those concerns is the sheer technical difficulty of taking one text and transforming it into another.
And I do mean text.
Txt.
The technology let me down and forced me to tackle business the old-fashioned way. So out came the quill pen and the serf I use as a footstool…and after a month of chipping away at the marble, I still have no sculpture to show for it. I’m almost done blogging for this month – but I’m shunting that entry to next month, a scant few days from now.
And I do mean text.
Txt.
The technology let me down and forced me to tackle business the old-fashioned way. So out came the quill pen and the serf I use as a footstool…and after a month of chipping away at the marble, I still have no sculpture to show for it. I’m almost done blogging for this month – but I’m shunting that entry to next month, a scant few days from now.
In the meantime, what do I write? Today I almost poisoned my mother. Yes, I am a carer and she is looked after. I made damned sure that she took her pills. All of her pills. In the right order. And there is an order. Smallest pill first. It is also the most vital.
The pills grow less vital as I march across the medicinal line of shapes lying between my fingers. That last pill is not vital. Except, of course, that it has a vital element in its description. It’s a vitamin supplement. She takes all the pills with her breakfast drink and a second breakfast drink. Second breakfast drink. You’d think we were in The Lord of the Fucking Rings, but I know that isn’t the title.
I went through pill routine. There are loads of mini-routines built into Morning Routine. I usually flit back and forth between rooms, carrying stuff through to the kitchen the second I am done with that stuff. It feels better to break the routine into thin slices.
If I carry everything away at once and trip up, I create a massive disaster. But if I drop one empty cup, it’s no big deal. Back and forth I go. Forth and back I go. Mistakes happen. They are minor.
But there I am, staring at the pills. They are in the pill container, labelled day by day, and they sit atop a tray that acts as a miniature pharmacy.
Something is a bit off about the container. One of the lids is up. These are pop-closed lids, snapping into place with a strong click. The lid shouldn’t be up. Once all of the pills leave the compartment, I snap the lid down. All the lids are closed.
Empty compartments sit on the left and filled compartments sit on the right. This is easy stuff. I deal with a few other things and return to the pills. I pick up the box and head through to the other room. Then I open the lid with the named day on it. The pills stare at me. I stare at the pills. Something is horribly wrong.
Luckily, there’s no drink. She takes the pills with a frothy milkshake that builds her up in the morning. With the frothy milkshake done and pills remaining, she tackles an ordinary glass of flavoured milk. But there isn’t even a glass.
For the sake of description, it’s a glass in name-only. Plastic. See-through. No glass or china here, to cause havoc. I’ve gone forth and back and back and forth and back again, removing items. The glass went to the sink for washing.
I can’t give her any pills by mistake. So there I am, about to poison my mother. I secure the lid of the NEXT day’s pills and retreat to the kitchen. This is not a mistake I make. Well, there you are – I’ve made it, now. I took over curation of her pills when she made the exact mistake I’ve just made.
Her pills sat in a daily pill box all those years ago. And she returned to it twice the same day, giving herself enough pills to last three days right before an important sampling of her blood.
I took charge of the pills after that.
And I didn’t make the same mistake. I almost made it. Fortunately, I stopped before she took extra pills. The to and fro routine saved her. The glass, you see.
Looking back on it, I was distracted. Seriously distracted. But just the once. More on my distracted state in the next blog post. The distraction is easy to forgive, given the nature of it. But the accidental poisoning would be far harder to forgive.
In seven years of administering a lengthening list of medicinal bullets, I am permitted one colossal mistake that I catch before it damns me. I feel awful. But I act quietly, without panic, in setting things to rights. What was the damage going to be like?
Seek immediate medical assistance.
Well, that sounds pretty shitty. I think of a younger version of my mother, looking after me when I was a helpless baby. And now, those positions are reversed and I am in charge of grown-up responsibilities that are about as grown-up as you can get. I’m the one who decides on the yes or the no of a Do Not Resuscitate order.
The pills grow less vital as I march across the medicinal line of shapes lying between my fingers. That last pill is not vital. Except, of course, that it has a vital element in its description. It’s a vitamin supplement. She takes all the pills with her breakfast drink and a second breakfast drink. Second breakfast drink. You’d think we were in The Lord of the Fucking Rings, but I know that isn’t the title.
I went through pill routine. There are loads of mini-routines built into Morning Routine. I usually flit back and forth between rooms, carrying stuff through to the kitchen the second I am done with that stuff. It feels better to break the routine into thin slices.
If I carry everything away at once and trip up, I create a massive disaster. But if I drop one empty cup, it’s no big deal. Back and forth I go. Forth and back I go. Mistakes happen. They are minor.
But there I am, staring at the pills. They are in the pill container, labelled day by day, and they sit atop a tray that acts as a miniature pharmacy.
Something is a bit off about the container. One of the lids is up. These are pop-closed lids, snapping into place with a strong click. The lid shouldn’t be up. Once all of the pills leave the compartment, I snap the lid down. All the lids are closed.
Empty compartments sit on the left and filled compartments sit on the right. This is easy stuff. I deal with a few other things and return to the pills. I pick up the box and head through to the other room. Then I open the lid with the named day on it. The pills stare at me. I stare at the pills. Something is horribly wrong.
Luckily, there’s no drink. She takes the pills with a frothy milkshake that builds her up in the morning. With the frothy milkshake done and pills remaining, she tackles an ordinary glass of flavoured milk. But there isn’t even a glass.
For the sake of description, it’s a glass in name-only. Plastic. See-through. No glass or china here, to cause havoc. I’ve gone forth and back and back and forth and back again, removing items. The glass went to the sink for washing.
I can’t give her any pills by mistake. So there I am, about to poison my mother. I secure the lid of the NEXT day’s pills and retreat to the kitchen. This is not a mistake I make. Well, there you are – I’ve made it, now. I took over curation of her pills when she made the exact mistake I’ve just made.
Her pills sat in a daily pill box all those years ago. And she returned to it twice the same day, giving herself enough pills to last three days right before an important sampling of her blood.
I took charge of the pills after that.
And I didn’t make the same mistake. I almost made it. Fortunately, I stopped before she took extra pills. The to and fro routine saved her. The glass, you see.
Looking back on it, I was distracted. Seriously distracted. But just the once. More on my distracted state in the next blog post. The distraction is easy to forgive, given the nature of it. But the accidental poisoning would be far harder to forgive.
In seven years of administering a lengthening list of medicinal bullets, I am permitted one colossal mistake that I catch before it damns me. I feel awful. But I act quietly, without panic, in setting things to rights. What was the damage going to be like?
Seek immediate medical assistance.
Well, that sounds pretty shitty. I think of a younger version of my mother, looking after me when I was a helpless baby. And now, those positions are reversed and I am in charge of grown-up responsibilities that are about as grown-up as you can get. I’m the one who decides on the yes or the no of a Do Not Resuscitate order.
Or, going by what I’m hearing in the era of the Coronavirus, I’m one of many people who could make that decision unless that decision has already been made to save me the bother. Excuse my world-weariness.
My responsibilities are as responsible as they ever get. Recently, I made major decisions concerning healthcare provisions. It was up to me. And it was arranged on my say-so over the telephone. The decisions made certain clinical visits less of a strain on all concerned.
And we always have options.
I’m as grown-up and responsible as anyone needs to be. And I get it wrong, badly wrong, once in seven years. The system evolved over time, and it is the system of going back and forth, forth and back, which saves me. There’s a solid rule about emptying a pill compartment and taking the box away to the kitchen in a VERY final way so that I don’t slip up and try to administer twice the pills over the course of a few minutes.
Reasons for distraction are valid. But there’s no excuse. Yes, I’m tired of all the precautions against the virus and I am bound to slip up. No, I’m not allowed to slip up. The anti-virus measures are there to stop chaos descending on an already-chaotic situation.
You are on your own when dealing with these things. There’s support, from all directions. But if you make that mistake…you make it alone. Support would come from all directions. “It wasn’t your fault.” (Fuck off, it was totally my fault.) “You made one colossal error in seven years, so don’t go blaming yourself.” (I’m not in the habit of blaming the gremlins hiding under the bed.)
And so on.
The upshot would’ve been illness. A slight risk of hospital admission. But you can’t be having a hospital admission that’s avoidable, in the time of the Coronavirus. That’ll do no good. At least I stopped the large doses of Paracetamol she was taking before the dementia kicked in. It was better to tune that ration down the way.
A double shot of Paracetamol would still have been half the overall daily dose from the old days. I prefer to keep Paracetamol down as close to zero delivery as possible, in case she has an emergency that requires a hefty dose of it.
She doesn’t miss taking those pills. We tried water-soluble, but that approach was even worse. It’s hard for her to take Paracetamol. So I made a decision about not giving her any at all. She has other forms of pain-relief, administered most carefully.
One massive mistake in seven years, and a good excuse for it. And the whole routine of routine itself saved me at the last second. Doesn’t mean I have to feel good about it. The knock-on effect of an overnight stay in hospital could easily be Coronavirus. Don’t take the chance. Eliminate as much risk as possible. Stay the fuck indoors. Wear masks. Pray to the ancient gods. Stay safe.
Pretty sure one piece of advice there was not like the other pieces of advice. I’ll have to review that in my spare time. I almost poisoned someone I am officially caring for. Minor poisoning. Certainly not fatal. Debilitating, perhaps. Hey, it’s been a fucked-up year.
Blaming myself? Absolutely. Glad I caught the mistake at the last second? Fucking right. Went off and had a coffee with some chocolate to kill the stress? It’s the best remedy. Except, of course, for an overdose of coffee and chocolate. That would work a fucking treat, as well.
And we always have options.
I’m as grown-up and responsible as anyone needs to be. And I get it wrong, badly wrong, once in seven years. The system evolved over time, and it is the system of going back and forth, forth and back, which saves me. There’s a solid rule about emptying a pill compartment and taking the box away to the kitchen in a VERY final way so that I don’t slip up and try to administer twice the pills over the course of a few minutes.
Reasons for distraction are valid. But there’s no excuse. Yes, I’m tired of all the precautions against the virus and I am bound to slip up. No, I’m not allowed to slip up. The anti-virus measures are there to stop chaos descending on an already-chaotic situation.
You are on your own when dealing with these things. There’s support, from all directions. But if you make that mistake…you make it alone. Support would come from all directions. “It wasn’t your fault.” (Fuck off, it was totally my fault.) “You made one colossal error in seven years, so don’t go blaming yourself.” (I’m not in the habit of blaming the gremlins hiding under the bed.)
And so on.
The upshot would’ve been illness. A slight risk of hospital admission. But you can’t be having a hospital admission that’s avoidable, in the time of the Coronavirus. That’ll do no good. At least I stopped the large doses of Paracetamol she was taking before the dementia kicked in. It was better to tune that ration down the way.
A double shot of Paracetamol would still have been half the overall daily dose from the old days. I prefer to keep Paracetamol down as close to zero delivery as possible, in case she has an emergency that requires a hefty dose of it.
She doesn’t miss taking those pills. We tried water-soluble, but that approach was even worse. It’s hard for her to take Paracetamol. So I made a decision about not giving her any at all. She has other forms of pain-relief, administered most carefully.
One massive mistake in seven years, and a good excuse for it. And the whole routine of routine itself saved me at the last second. Doesn’t mean I have to feel good about it. The knock-on effect of an overnight stay in hospital could easily be Coronavirus. Don’t take the chance. Eliminate as much risk as possible. Stay the fuck indoors. Wear masks. Pray to the ancient gods. Stay safe.
Pretty sure one piece of advice there was not like the other pieces of advice. I’ll have to review that in my spare time. I almost poisoned someone I am officially caring for. Minor poisoning. Certainly not fatal. Debilitating, perhaps. Hey, it’s been a fucked-up year.
Blaming myself? Absolutely. Glad I caught the mistake at the last second? Fucking right. Went off and had a coffee with some chocolate to kill the stress? It’s the best remedy. Except, of course, for an overdose of coffee and chocolate. That would work a fucking treat, as well.
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