The world is getting weird particularly my world. My mother wears a colostomy bag and I do the fiddly things that have to be done for her difficult condition. It's an hour of my life I'll never get back and my fingers hurt because I have to roll up the bottom with a stick strip and fold over, making sure the fold over bits go to the outside. TMI, sorry, it's life.
So to make things easier because the nursing staff just throw the whole lot into the hazardous waste and never open the bottom with the sticky strip, I thought I would ring the Ostomy Association and get exactly the same bag without a bottom sticky strip opening. No, they're not allowed to change the bags on my say so. I have to ring the District Nursing Service, who rings the stomal therapist, who rings the nursing home, who rings the doctor and then she makes an appointment to thoroughly go through mother's records etc. I know more about my mother's unusual condition than any stomal therapy nurse anywhere. I ring mother with the bad news (for me) and she said "no, bloody hell no". I thought she'd forgotten how to swear, she's always telling me off. "I hate those know-it-all bitches. You keep folding the ends."
She then tells me that she needs to buy a TENS re-chargable unit for the pain in her shoulders. She says it makes her comfortable, my sister says it's all in her head. The Home physiotherapist was going to order it but decided for some reason that I should do it and handed everything over to mum. So I'm going to walk in there with something that has to be charged like a cell phone and could give her heart a jolt if it's not okay but I can't walk in and hand over a plastic excrement bag, ostomy not my sister. I will take it to the office where it will be checked and re-checked by the electrician but I want to know why it's my job not the physiotherapist's. Her excuse was the high cost of the unit and she wanted me to be responsible.
The only joyous part of this morning was getting a parcel I've been waiting for except it was my address but not my name. Bless a company that put a phone number on the return and it turns out it is for 73 just up the street. It'll take me five minutes and I'll count that as my 30 minute day walk.
I tell you, the siren call of the soothing gin is getting stronger.
Damn the redtape BS, ignore your sister, if your mum says it works for her then get it.
Kick the slacker physio, that's just laziness.
As for your sisters comment re the wheelchair - get comfy in it, indulge in vanilla slices and some Bombay Sapphire...then run her down.
As you know this is close to home. Damn the nursing staff, the physio, your sister and anyone and everyone else. When I get a wheel chair I want one with Ben Hur spikes so I can inflict damage. And an air horn. And gin sounds good. Gin often sounds good.
Jayne, who cares if it's in her head that she feels better and I've been using one for 25 years and they do work.
EC, now you're talking, Ben Hur spikes and an air horn, rippper. Now there's an idea for Jayne for the Christmas rabble, sharp spikes on your white cane should take care of the pests at Chadstone.
That seems like a lot of fuss and bother just to change a colostomy bag type. It's like everyone along the line doesn't want to think about colosomies so passes the buck.
I like the cute little owl picture.
P.S. when I'm old I plan on having one of those "gophers" to go shopping, with a big airhorn, and I'll sneak up behind those people who insist on blocking the aisles to have a three hour chat because they haven't seen each other since yeaterday, then let loose with the horn.
River, you'd faint if you knew how much these therapists make out of doing these visits. I make a point of taking down the magazine from the Association for the nurses to read as most of them don't know much at all.
As for your gopher, we'll have to change your name to 'Rebel'.
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