Stroked Senseless

Fool me thrice?

2009-11-16T20:15:00.002+01:00

DAY 139

Today I was informed that we had some good news. They had found a rehabilitation centre, with specialised Neurology department, willing to take my mother but it was not one of the two located within Marseille. Not knowing the surrounding areas I asked how far it was. To this they replied 'well, it's a bit of a distance. It's just a little way out'. So again, I asked where it was. Neither of them could answer. It was only once I had looked it up that I realised they were shipping her 65km away from home. Well, that's just fantastic!

Mother is clearly not well within herself. The realisation of her extent of her Stroke is doing nothing to aide the lack of treatment concerning her Bi-Polar disorder. She managed to express that I should have let her die. Sadly, I agree with her. The likelihood of her regaining any of her mobility is slim to none. The best we can hope for is some sort of improvement on her speech. Had she appointed me her Power of Attorney and signed a DNR prior to her Stroke we wouldn't even be having this discussion.

Hindsight is such a beautiful thing.

Denial of Responsability

2009-11-10T15:24:00.020+01:00

DAY 133

Today I brought in the 'Sauvegarde de Justice' which names me as court appointed 'Mandataire Special' for my mother as she is incapable of carrying out any administrative duties. It also clearly states that due to alternations in her mental faculties, I am to be her legal representative. This, however, still does not prove to hospital staff that my mother is incapable of conveying her wishes, therefore they will accept this as notification of me dealing with her administration duties but that doesn't mean I can dictate whom can visit her.

I'm a little unclear as to how the hospital can blatantly deny my mothers lack of comprehension and clear inability to communicate. It leads me to the not so far fetched assumption that they do not want to be help responsible for the mammoth neglect and danger they continue to put her in.

I'm also pretty certain that there is a clause in the Mental Health Act which forces them to insure her psychological safety. Not administering her anti-depressants and mood regulators for over 4 months then claiming she has the right to speak for her self, sanely, must be a violation. Unfortunately the full Power of Attorney seems to be taking forever and until then I will be able to do nothing other than fight off the bailiffs and fight with ignorant, over worked, incompetent hospital staff.

Never has the NHS looked so good in my eyes.

The Persistant Psychopath

2009-11-07T14:21:00.002+01:00

DAY 130

Having suffered ill health myself, I had been unable to visit the hospital all week. Apparently, this was of no consequence to my mother as she still had a regular visitor whom had been hidden from me by the, rather misguided, nursing staff (who had assured me this would not happen).

I entered her room to find Patrick, her stalker, having a bloody good laugh with the nursing staff whilst my mother was being changed. Of course I started shouting at both him and the incompetent nursing staff, who took his side.

"But you see Madame, he comes in everyday and feeds her, takes care of her. She has the biggest smile on her face".

Everyday? Which part of 'NO VISITS FROM HER STALKER' on her file do you not understand? Which part of 'she is the vainest person in the world who just so happens to have been off her Bi-Polar treatment for the last 4 months and can't possibly be on her own looking the way she does now' does not concern you?

So I'm promptly escorted out of her room. He quickly follows to tell me the nurses have informed him of everything; how it was my fault she had the Stroke and my fault that he and my mother were no longer together. Yes man, it's my fault that you have AIDS and that you have nothing to offer anyone. Yes man, it's my fault that my mother used you for your car and company, regardless of your mindnumbing rants. Yes man, it's my fault my mother told you to get to hell and leave her alone in May yet you can't seem to let go like the time you and a friend decided to drunk dial us pretending that you had died or going around all the hospitals in Marseille pretending to be her husband just so you could find out where she was. Well, one thing is for certain. My mother can fucking choose 'em.

What concerns me the most about this is that Patrick has managed to lie and manipulate the nurses into believing a story he has concocted, yet he is of no relation or consequence to my mother. I, being her next of kin, don't seem to have any clout. The hospital refuse to admit she is incapable of conveying her wishes despite her aphasia being so severe, I sometimes wonder if she is saying 'YES' when she really means 'NO'. The woman can't even say my name or write a damn thing. All of this screams endangerment to me.

Now I have to go to the police and prove that this man is a danger, but whilst I do that he has Carte Blanche to visit when he likes... and unsupervised.

Wow, my life is now complete. Crack open the champagne.

Fool me once, prove me right twice...

2009-10-23T17:42:00.018+02:00

DAY 115

Oh, yes. I woke up with a huge grin an overwhelming sense of relief today. This was to be the day mother would be leaving the hospital and begining her journey through rehabilitation; or so I thought.

I arrived at the hospital an hour before she was meant to be transferred. Mother was in very high spirits, despite apprehensively wondering what rehabilitation might hold for her. We waited an hour, then another. 2 hours after her transfer time had passed, a nurse finally appeared. Apparently she would not be going today, there was no room for her. Oh, yes. Again, communication failure and massacred hope. Mom didn't take this gleeful news very well (possibly due to lack of any treatment of her Bi-Polar disorder since July) and lashed out at me like this was all my fault.

Upon arriving home I informed the family, all of which were considerably more shocked than me.

When will this nightmare end? No really, when?

Good News?

2009-10-17T17:48:00.044+02:00

DAY 109

Oh, I know. Being a realist beast means I am rarely allowed out to play with the fluffy bunnies in the glorious sun soaked fields of Optimism but I assure you it does happen. Occasionally without casualties.

Having fought my way through the Saturday shopping crowds I finally arrived at the hospital, riding my last nerve. I open mother's door to find an elderly man in her place. Go figure, they've moved her again and no one thought to tell her court appointed legal representative. After tracking down an elusive member of staff and being pointed in the right direction, I set off in search of the Mothership. I eventually found her in the Plastic Surgery ward, surrounded by nursing staff having a good ol' laugh... with her. OK, things might just be looking up here.

Seeing as she'd moved wards, again, I saw it fit to reiterate that even if Hell froze over she was not to have an visits from her stalker. Apparently this time hospital staff had got it right and my statement redundant, although they did tell me her daughter came to visit yesterday. I'm pretty certain I did not visit yesterday nor did my sister lose all her senses and illegally charter a plane from Newport. Oh please don't tell me I have an other sister, one is enough. I guarantee you she would say the same. I asked Mom if perhaps her niece had visited and she said yes. Mystery solved.

And now onto the good news. The infection had been eradicated and they were no longer administering the hardcore anti-biotic. She would be having her final skin graft operation on Monday with a view to transfer her to rehabilitation on Friday if all went well.

If I'd worn a hat, I would have eaten it. Instead, I settled on my scarf.

The Fake Out

2009-09-18T21:12:00.067+02:00

DAY 80

Wow! Today must have been AMPH's 'How to fail a patient in 3 easy steps' day.

At 11am sharp I received a phone call from the 'Assistante Social' of l'Hôpital Nord Marseille informing me my mother would be transferred to rehabilitation in a couple of hours. Strange. They only operated last week and as far as I'm aware there is still a minimum of one operation to go. She's being fed intravenously, is prescribed a heavy duty anti-biotic and has part of her skull exposed. None of this equates to ready for rehabilitation.

I informed my family of the suspicious news to which every response was the same. 'Think positive, it's a good sign'. However, my mind refused to accept the hospital was doing anything other than trying to get rid of my mother.

Arriving at the hospital 45 minutes before the transfer ambulance had been booked, I entered her room to find the medics already there. We left immediately. Mom was so happy to be out of the hospital, in fact, we both were. I'd been waiting 76 days for this. After a journey of nearly an hour, we pulled up to Valmante Rehabilitation centre. The medics took Mom whilst I filled out paperwork in the admissions office. I hadn't even gotten as far as giving the woman my name when the medic interrupted us. 'Don't fill anything out, she's going back to the hospital'. What? You have got to be kidding me! In all their wisdom (read incompetence), l'Hôpital Nord had not fully disclosed my mother's care needs. They were unable to accommodate her as she was not eating, therefore she was not ready for rehabilitation.

Loaded back into the ambulance, Mom looked defeated as did I. The only difference was that I knew deep down that something was going to go wrong, I just had no idea it would be this. I spent the entire journey arguing with the hospital. They didn't want to take her back, it cost 1500€ a night (all covered by her comprehensive medical insurance) and they were going to find a rehabilitation centre that would take her immediately regardless of the implications to her recovery.

When we arrived there was not a doctor, nurse or intern in sight. I waited 3 hours to speak to a supervisor for an explication but alas not one soul ever turned up.

So here we are, back at square one. If the hospital have their way Mom will be shipped off to another rehabilitation centre 25 miles out of town, impossible for me to visit her. It makes me wonder why these complacent idiots choose to work in a service based industry when clearly they do NOT have the patients best interest at heart.

'S' For Stalker

2009-07-31T21:47:00.004+02:00

DAY 31

The lengths some sick, twisted, control hungry amoebas will go to for attention baffles me.

Only last week, my mother's good-for-nothing ex-friend called me saying he'd heard through the grapevine that Mom was in hospital and that he wanted me to give her his regards. I, in no uncertain terms, reminded him that she had rightly ousted him from her life months ago and that I would be doing no such thing. He wanted to know what hospital she was at; I again declined to comply and hung up after asking him to leave us alone. I thought I had made myself understood.

Clearly I didn't realise I was dealing with a seasoned stalker.

Today, my Aunt and I went to visit my mother in her new ward. They had downgraded her from ICU to the Surveillance Unit where she now shared a room with another patient. Her roomie is very much the exhibitionist however, this was the least of my concerns. At the bottom of my mother's bed was a bouquet of flowers. Stapled onto said bouquet was a card. It read, 'All My Love.. Patrick'. I can't believe it. If he really wanted to see her that badly he would have come and gone unseen insuring I would never find out. Instead he makes it crassly apparent that despite withholding her whereabouts he went to the trouble to trawl 7 different hospitals pretending to be her husband just to find her. If that's not stalking, I don't know what is.

I immediately explained the situation to the nurse, who could only suggest I call the police. After all, they're only a hospital and can't monitor the comings and goings of visitors. What a clown show. My mother is incapable of expressing her own wishes, a prisoner in her own body and they willingly allow anyone to enter her room to psychologically harass her? That's just plain sick. Especially as she has been off her anti-depressants for a month now.

Why the hell can't he leave her alone? She made it clear to him that he was no longer a part of her life. In response, he made prank calls to her with his drinking buddy pretending that he had died. He yelled bloodly murder at 3am when no one would let him into our building. He sleeps in his car outside most weekends and is at the residence everyday... even though he lives miles away. If I didn't already know of his cowardice I might be afraid. Instead, I'm seething with rage. May God help him. This is war.

Sibling Reverie/Ignorance

2009-07-04T18:39:00.003+02:00

DAY 4

So, my sister arrived earlier today and despite not having been in contact for the last year, we haven’t killed each other yet. I actually feel slightly guilty as I kept telling her about Mom’s great progress, how she was moving around and grabbing my hand, but when we got to the hospital we found her intubated in a medical coma to help her lungs heal. They are now throwing around Pneumonia rather than just fluid on the lungs.

Poor sis. Upon finding our mother like this she turned ghostly pale and almost fainted. I kept a guardful eye on my shoes just incase they were within splashing distance...

Pessimistic Optimism

2009-07-02T20:12:00.004+02:00

DAY 2

Sleeping three hours interrupted does nothing to refresh the soul, let alone help stablise one's emotions. My cousin and aunt who I had not see or spoken to in over 5 years came to pick me up. Together we made the long journey to the hospital, unaware of what awaited us there. We spent 30 minutes in the waiting room for someone to welcome us.

The sound of the automated doors was enough to put anyone on edge.

Once inside, we found my mother in her own room. She was awake and seemed to be aware that we were there, she looked at me and followed me with her eyes. She tried to squeeze my hand when I asked her to so we know she can understand. They think she may have fluid in her lungs so they’re giving her oxygen although she is breathing on her own. I can see the frustration all over her face because she can’t communicate. We didn’t speak to the doctor but we did see the intern and he was very straight with us. He said they didn’t know what had caused the carotid dissection. They were going to do an echo later on to see if she had any clots in her heart which may have dislodged and caused it. He said usually this happens to people with diabetes or hypertension and smoking alone wouldn’t have done it. They’re really perplexed.

Fractures

2009-07-01T23:50:00.004+02:00

DAY 1: part 2

Spreading tragic news is just that, tragic. Having spent the rest of the day calling family members to let them know what has happened I am now so tired I can no longer sleep. To say our family is fractured would be an understatement. My mother returned to France to be around family only to find herself alone. One sister lives miles away on the Italian border and is speaking to the other one via the mediation of a legal team. I felt, despite their differences, that I still had a duty to inform everyone. Emotions are running high. I've innumerably recounted the events to the point of numbness. I lie here restless, fearing the worst, wishing the phone not to ring.

The beginning of... what?

2009-07-01T10:23:00.042+02:00

DAY 1: part 1

The last 12 hours have been a blur, a numb yet painful blur. Following a delayed flight, early closure of the tube and an arduous trek home I entered the apartment that I share with my mother. I am not greeted at the door by an excited sheep-like dog or a cat capable of Pavarotti-esque Arias. It’s eerily quiet. It suddenly dawns on me that I don’t even hear my mother’s usual nasal symphony of snores. Turning the light on, I peer down the hallway towards my room. Before my eyes can make it all the way to end they stop suddenly, trying to translate what they see. There, where they should not be, are my mother’s legs poking out of her bedroom door. Panic sets in immediately as I run to her. She is laid there motionless, in a puddle of her own urine, foaming at the mouth. On the bed is a note which reads “I can’t take it any more…” along with an impressive collection of empty prescription pill packets. I can’t believe she’s done THIS again. She has tried to commit suicide again. Selfish bitch. AGAIN.

I turn her over to find she is conscious. Screaming and crying I ask her what she has done. She does not answer me. She stares at me vacantly whilst I try to lift her into my arms and fail epically. Her dead weight coupled with my panic; were getting nowhere. What’s the fucking number for the emergency services? I’m in France. I have no clue. I call the operator frantically trying to explain what I need. He is useless. I repeat over and over again “Ambulance, the number for the ambulance, to take her to the hospital.” He gives me an erroneous number. I try the operator again, this time armed with the number I need. They are on their way.

Mom is grabbing the door with her left hand trying to pull herself up without any luck. She grabs my arm, pulling me down to the ground and slaps her right arm with it. I don’t know how long she has been laid on it. I assume it has fallen asleep. Sitting on the floor, I pull her into my lap and caress her hair. I’m seething with anger, overwhelmed by her betrayal and scared. The ten minutes it takes the ambulance to get here pass in slow motion, feeling like days. The medics come in, getting right to it. Minutes later a police officer pops his curious head round the corner. He and his partner have let themselves into my home. Who fucking called them? What are they doing here? They treat me like a criminal, following me in the ambulance to the hospital then taking the letter I found, leaving me with a photocopy. They only leave once they have my statement. Confusion has now set in along with the shock.

The waiting room is empty yet claustrophobic. A nurse tells me to wait; I will be summoned to see my mother once everything has calmed down. She returns an hour later with little information. They are running test as they do not believe she has overdosed. I am told that she is unresponsive despite the measures they have taken. I wait some more. Finally, the doctor invites me in. He sits me down in front of a monitor and explains the image. This is my mother’s brain. The left hemisphere appears dark, meaning there is no activity. It suddenly becomes clear to me; she has suffered a stroke.

The doctor states that they cannot treat her here so we will be transferred to another hospital better equipped to deal with this. It is 12 miles out of town, there will be an ambulance to take us shortly. The medics are nice but I have nothing to say. I remember arriving at the hospital but not the journey. They tell me to wait in the hallway whilst they escort my mother into ‘Reanimation’. Someone should be out soon to update me on her condition. Numerous doctors, interns and nurses pass me without saying a word, avoiding any eye contact. Not one person is fazed by my hysterical crying. The time passes so slowing, especially as I’m productively using my time to lay blame on myself. How could I think she was going to commit suicide? How did I not know it was a stroke? If only I hadn’t gone away for the weekend to enjoy myself I would have been here for her. Now I’m the selfish bitch.

Two and a half hours later a timid nurse finally asks me what I am doing here. I tell her I came in with my mother, the medics told me to wait here and that I would be updated. Her face drops. She was under the impression that my mother had been taken in on her own. She is frantically apologetic as she drags me into the unit. I barely recognise my own mother. Her face is swollen like a balloon. I only get enough time to squeeze her hand before she is carted away to have a part of her skull removed. They tell me to go home. Home? I don’t even know where I am. Several interns talk at me, directing me with the accuracy of a child in a forest without a compass. All I gather from the exercise is that I am to get a bus from the bottom of the hill. I somehow manage to find my way home in autopilot, sobbing and drawing attention to myself, wearing a heavy sweater and scrubs in the sweltering Mediterranean summer heat.

So here I am now, an emotional mess, trying to pluck up the courage to inform my family of the recent events.