Fury and futility...

Really... I hate starting a blog with a title like that.

Maybe it should have been "Let them eat cake..."


Dean came up with a solution. He decided that borrowing some money from his wealthy sister is the solution to our problem.

Problem is that said-wealthy sister dictates that I should not own pets, have cable, nor spend any money on any form of entertainment. Food that is not strictly survival should be curtailed. You get the picture... wash and reuse tampons, steal ketchup and cracker packets from Mc Donalds for a tastey dinner later... That kind of thing.

Pretty depressing words, coming from a millionaire down to a girl in a double-wide.

Basically, if we're borrowing money there should be no enjoyment of life. If we have money to enjoy life, then we're being wasteful. If we have time to enjoy life, we are not working hard enough and have no business borrowing money, only to squander it with laying about.

I told him I was uncomfortable with him making the call, that the likelyhood of her refusing him (and leaving him feeling devistated and rejected) was high. That if she did loan him money that the price he paid would be high, emotionally. And I told him (again) that you can not get out of debt by borrowing money.

So... I let him call her. Ok, desperation move on my part. Trying to get a quicker resolve to this problem of not having vehicles to get to work in.

Her requirement for the loan was that I call her to give her my verbal agreement that I would not add any pets, we would not have cable, and I would have my IP account terminated (that doggone wasteful $14.95 a month, you know).

I told him up-front that I was not happy making this call, that I felt that while I don't mind justifying, reasonably, my expenses, that this situation was more complicated than she could understand.

So, ever the dutiful wife, I gathered my strenght and resolve (shaking in my boots, I mean) and called her.

As expected, I felt abused. She reminded me that people in "our situation" have no business "running a rescue". I made it clear that in no way are we a rescue, and Molly the beagle is in no way our financial responsibility, and that my friend's rescue organization offered to pay ALL our animal feed bills until we get back on our feet.

I also told her something very important that I didn't think she understood...

I've worn the same pair of contact lenses for two years. THese are the two month kind of lenses, and should have been thrown away long ago. I CHOOSE to put my money toward my animals.

What I didn't tell her is that Dean and I do not take vacations.

We took a moderate amount and showed two of my granddaughter's ponies at the fair this year.

We didn't take so much as a weekend to go to the lake this year.

We had no family gatherings.

We haven't had a working furnace in almost two years, and continue to heat with wood (we have a wood lot behind the house, and a very nice wood burning stove in the living room of of our 1100 sq ft. house, and Dean cuts and stack the wood himself).

We had a broken refrigerator and Dean helped a friend move in exchange for her old, beat-up one that works beautifully.

We do not have garbage service, we don't go to movies. I have continued a Netflix subscription the last few months after my youngest got it for free for me for Christmas last year.

We don't buy clothing, I don't buy make-up.

I can't remember when I paid more than $10 to get my hair cut, and I quit coloring the gray because I couldn't do a respectable job of it myself and can't afford to pay for it.

We own no jet-skis or snow mobiles. We haven't got fishing licenses.

I have no molars at all on the bottom because dental work is expensive. The one molar I have is fake and falling apart.

We both work between 40 and 50 hours a week.

I guess I sort of resent her infering that we have this luxurious lifestyle with all these "extras" that we should do away with.

Anyway, in the end, I assured her that if she didn't feel right about doing this that she should do it. I told her that if she did, it would help relight a spark in me that someone had faith. And that in no uncertain circumstances she should refuse if she felt uncomfortable about it.

The first thing Dean said when I hung up (in a very snotty tone) "Well! Sounds like you were doing a pretty good job talking her out of it!"

I waited a few minutes before I could gather myself to say "That was a mean thing to say. I'm as commited to getting out of this mess as you. If you didn't want me to be scrupulously honest, you shouldn't have had me call her at all. I TOLD you I didn't feel good about this!"

Eventually he apologized. He tends to instantly say the meanest, nastiest thing that comes into his head, while I tend to really, really, really carefully count and weigh my words to do minimum impact. (which is probably why he still hasn't cut down the tree I've been asking him to cut for years).

God, I do not want that woman's help. I've GOT to come up with something that can stop this.

I tried to explain to her that the situation is neither as complex nor as simple as it seems.

Honest to God, she asked me "Oh! You really can't get a personal loan or a credit card without your spouses signature, can you?" And I simply said "oh yes. Absolutely 100%."

The debt is not in my name. And this is the complex part.

I've done little to stop him from creating new debt (see debtors anonymous website for details, if you're reading this). Problem is, I've got my own issues with this to contend with and it's murderously hard. Now comes the man who wants to get a signature loan to "buy a new refrigerator and make truck repairs", but oops. The new refrigerator never gets bought. The money is frittered away. I get the benefits of it, with no repercussions. But I didn't create the debt. And if he'd asked me BEFORE he did this, I'd have said "Don't you dare create any new debt". But he didn't. And I didn't fight and scratch and scream when he offered to take me out to dinner (etc) with the money. I'm guilty but not of the crime I'm being accused of.

As it is with his sister. I've told him again and again and again... you can NOT get out of debt by borrowing money.

Just blog about it...

For some reason, my font didn't want to set. I wonder if there is a way to edit it in my preferences?

The last few days have been pure "suck". No two ways around it.

I found out that Martha was put on a feeding tube. While this is going to relieve the horrible choking, and I should be glad for that, 94 is awfully old for a feeding tube. Good sense says the family should have just relieved her symptoms and let her slip away.

Starvation isn't that bad of a way to go, I don't think. Nor is dehydration. If you've got good meds on-board, anyway.

About my home life... Lately not good. Both vehicles were repossessed in the last two days. Dean's truck was picked up on Wednesday night, and my car was picked up yesterday.

We're also being sued for the cost of them.

With no way for me to get to work, that's going to cut out at least $1000 a month from our income.

Tomorrow we'll try to work together on a solution.. an old beater that I can use to drive him to work in the mornings, and then pick him up at night. Wood Ridge might let me transfer to first shift, and then it could be done.

Problem being that we're barely making anything right now, so getting a working car, getting insurance and tags on it, and then keeping it going through the winter is not looking very bright.

I was hesitant to even write about this. There's a lot of shame and anger in me over this situation.

Dean sits and looks at me, waiting for me to somehow "fix" this. Truth is, we wouldn't be in this situation if I could only convince him that we can not get out of debt by borrowing money. He just does not get it.

Updates...

Minnie passed away Thursday night. Her family was with her. Joe is handling it well. In her obituary I discovered that she's a Canadian, and that her real name is after two beautiful plants. Her family asked that donations to local animal welfare organizations be sent. I love people that do that.

I've visited Martha in the hospital. The first time I got lucky and got there just as they were taking her in for a swallowing test (an x-ray as she swallowed).

Thought they could tell me anything because I'm not family, it was easy to gather that she's aspirating absolutely everything that she swallows.

That's terrifying to me. I've seen people go that way before, and by gosh, I sure didn't want this for my girl.

Yesterday I visited and brought her dentures, her glasses and her rosary. Sweet little Cass had been in and brought her "Charlie", a little green stuffed bear that she had tied to her call light cord. He squeeks when squished, so I'm hoping she thinks to squeek him if she needs help in the hospital.

I talked to her nurse and told her that Martha's dementia makes her panic easily. She can walk, but she's anxious the whole way asking "what are we doing now?" again and again. I told the nurse to break it down into tiny steps for her "put your hands on your walker... lean forward.. stand up". And to reassure her that she won't fall.

When I gave Martha her rosary I said "When my momma' went to the hospital, that was what she always wanted us to bring her... her rosary and her glasses", as I took it out of it's case and handed it to her. "Ohhh", she sighed, so quietly. "I'll say a prayer for her, too." This choked me up.

Last night after I finished my work, I had Gab take my tempurature, which was 100.2, and I left. I'm pretty sure I just have hot ears and wasn't sick, but I took advantage and called in today. I needed a mental health day after these past few...

Instead I went to my step-daughter's house and cleaned her appalling kitchen. Dean scolds her and asks "WHY don't you get busy and clean?". But I know why she can't, even if I can't really put it into words. What I do, after he scolds, is hug her and say "You need to decide that you deserve a clean comfortable house to relax in". She looks up with huge blue eyes, dark circled, and says "That's the hard part." She has three kids, and they are a handful. I love them, but these are not easy, low maintenance kids. They are messy, noisey, and occasionally naughty. This doesn't mean I love them any less, but only that I have empathy with her because sometimes things are more complicated than just scrubbing your floors.

"She's dying..."

Last night was a brand new low in my career, and got a hair's breadth of being something much worse.

A busy, busy night. Several declining residents, and some making painful-slow steps up from illness and injury (read: stroke, fall, or CHF). No experienced help on the shift but me, and another nurse assistant in charge.

I'm struggling through my work (a particularly heavy assignment), and I hear the charge aide announce that help is needed in a room on another hall. I finish what I'm doing, but it's late and I'm sure that one of the others is long since finished and has gotten to the resident who needed assistance.

But on my way to drop my trash, I look up and see that two call lights are on and silenced... The one that was announced, and another near by. The one near by is my dear Martha. She's got some form of dementia, and will often call out for help, when her problem is simple (ha!) anxiety.

I am quick down the hall, and pause at Martha's door. "Hang on, honey. I'll be right there!" I call... but instead of her little "Help! Help!", it registers that I hear only a rapid tapping...

The other resident needs a window closed. I check to make sure her O2 is on, and that she has water, and tell her "Good night, sweetheart, sleep well".

And back to Martha.

I come in the room and hear the sickening sound of labored, liquid, struggling breath. I flip on a light and Martha is stone white, heavy, frothy phlem pouring out of her mouth and nose.

Leaping on her bed, I grab her to flip her over on her side so I can clear her air way. In my mind a racing dialogue... "Is she choking? On WHAT? Flip the call light!", she is rigid, and will not turn, though I'm strong. Her jaws are clenched and I can not clear her mouth. The emergency phone is far away. I tell Martha "Hang on, sweetie! I'm going for help!" and I sprint, absolutely sprint, to the med room/nurses station. As I fly I see a young aide.. "Mark! Go sit with Martha!". In the med room, out of breath, "Mary! Martha is choking!" and we both sprint back to Martha.

Mark is meandering down the hall. He didn't understand I ment "URGENTLY go see to Martha". Mary and I race past, I say "she's choking" to Mark, and I run to Martha.

Mary looks at me and says "She's dying."

We're struggling to get her upright, and Mary grabs a towel and begins to clear the heavy fluid. Again she looks right in my eyes and says "She's dying." Very simply. Very quietly.

"No", I say, "don't say that. You'll be fine, Martha. I'm here."


Mark arrives and we get Martha sitting up fully, Mary says "Go call 911!". Again, the long sprint to the med room.

Totally out of breath, I tell the 911 operator that we have apparent choking in an approximately 90 year old woman. As I'm finishing the phone is ringing again. Not sure if it could be Mary, calling on her cell with more information, and knowing that I work for this place (not for Martha, but for "the place"), I dutifully answer the phone "Wood Ridge, this is Lynn...". It's the DON and thank heavens. When I say "choking" she says "try the heimlich manuver", and I feel one of many waves of frustration for my panic, because it should have been my first thought.

Back in the room, Mary and Mark are attempting to swab out the thick phlem. I slip onto the bed, supporting Martha as high up as I can get her and say "it's ok... I'm here. You're going to be fine. Now COUGH for me, honey!"

I'm nearly blank, my mind is a white place. I'm trying to remember what I was trained to do.

I tell Mark and Mary that I've told the ambulance that someone will be out front waiting for them.

Suddenly I'm alone with Martha and another aide, white faced, but wonderfully solid. She's a girl nearly my age.

I look into Martha's eyes. "Give me your dentures." Her ashed face shows something besides panic, she's puzzled and objecting. "Give me them!" I remove them quickly with my bare fingers. Kathy then can sweep Martha's mouth more effectively. We get Martha's feet on the floor.

"She was fine when I put her to bed!".

"I know, sweetie.. I just found her like this.."

The ambulance, Mark, Mary arrive. The EMT asks a few questions. I tell them she is 94, no history of COPD or CHF. Some dementia. Fine and normal right up until she was found like this tonight.

They ask her if she wants to go to the hospital. The EMT's and ambulance personel are obviously skeptical. As I listen to the quiet pieces of their conversations that slip in, they are disappointed that there is a motorcycle accident so close, but they're stuck with this old woman with no family. They take a pulse and listen to her lungs quickly but take no other vitals and put her on O2.

"Well, her lungs are clear. This is upper-airway. And.. well," (to Martha) "You want to go to the hospital?"

(A little aside here... the one thing you NEVER do in health care, at least NEVER with geriatrics, is ask a question like that. They'll always say 'no!'. They don't want to be a bother. They don't want to have to leave their bed. They're afraid of the cost.)

I'm exasperated, but silent. Mary tells them "yes, we want her looked at".

"No, no!" Martha is struggling to get that out.

"Martha.. you go up and let the doctors look at you. For me."

Not aware of Martha's peculiar style of ambulation, which is filled with objections and anxiety, the EMT's lift her, and she, manages to get in a few of her "I'm going to fall! I'm going to fall!".

She's always said that. Ever since I met her.

Quietly I say "no.. you're fine. I won't let you fall. You're ok".

At the door of the ambulance I tell her "I'll see you tomorrow. Ok? If you're at the hospital still, I'll see you there. I love you. Be good for the doctors."

"I love you, too" she says.

I do something I've done only once at work. I cry. Hard.

All of us shaken, Mark says he said it looked like a seizure. I wonder at that, because she was so rigid at first, and I could not get her jaws apart to sweep her mouth.



This morning I go and do my weekly housekeeping gig (that I keep in order to feed my ponies and other animals). Afterward, midafternoon, I'm close so I go back to Wood Ridge to get an update.

Martha has just been brought back. The DON tells me that all four lobes where effusing, and that they feel it's bronchitis (but don't back any of this up with x-rays).

I go to her room. She's much like she was the night before, but not so responsive. I look in her eyes. I stroke her hair a moment. Tell her I love her and will see her tomorrow.

Tonight I called for an update. Moments after I saw her this afternoon she was taken back to the ER and this time admitted.


I know she can die. I know that 94 is a good age. I don't have any illusions about death ever having to be pretty. I know she is ready.

Many, many of my beloved residents have died. Friends and family as well. This is not new to me, and I'm usually rock-solid about it.

I just wanted them to ease her pain and suffering. And I was mad at myself for so quickly forgetting all training and panicing. And for loving the funny little lady that she is so much, that it erased all elements of my job.

Truth is, no.. I'm not really ready to let her go. Just please, not like this.

In the beginning..

G'morning, everyone.

Instead of playing endless hands of freecell or spider solitaire to unwind from work at night, I thought it might be nice to maybe do something a bit more productive with my time.

The only thing you need to know about this blog to follow it is that I'm a near-middle-aged female who lives in the midwest and I work in heath care. I've done this for many, many years.

That and I'm an animal lover and that I'm married with kids and grandkids.

The only person that could come across this blog and be even slightly offended by anything I write here is someone who probably wouldn't bother. He's got plenty of his own blogging and worrying about others to do.

What's on my mind today is work. Last night at about 7pm a man came out of his room worried. "Minnie is on her way out."

"What's wrong, Joe?"

"She's just staring straight ahead and won't talk to me".

She's just come back from re-hab, she's CHF and has a single kidney.

Indeed, she's staring straight ahead and her expression is a bit fixed. I ask her what's wrong, which sends her (and she's quite a prim little lady) into fits of giggles. Euphoria. This isn't good.

I quickly go and find what substitutes as a "nurse" (or "charge-aide" is what we use where I work) who is a 19 year old fool who I know, is going to be way beyond her depth.

I'm gentle in guiding her through what we need to do here, which is get vitals, contact our DON and the doctor, ASAP.

No, Gabrielle says, she can't reach the DON. I get more firm and tell her to try ALL available nursing staff (ANYONE who can give us permission to ship poor Minnie to the nearest ER), and that I'll stay with Minnie and Joe.

Honestly, I think Gab-the-fool was a little lost at that point. She suggested Hospice, until I reminded her that Minnie and Joe had actually met with Hospice just hours earlier and refused their services.

Minnie is sitting comfortably, peaceful, and cooperative. Joe, trying to hide tears carefully, in his wheelchair, goes to the refrigerator and shakily brings her back a small cup of water. This act, which has taken such effort on his part, out of love and devotion to his dying wife, has broken my heart.

That and the fluid, which her kidneys no longer will remove, which is leaking out of her socks, and even pooling out her tiny shoes.

Minnie, with a odd, strange smile, is asking for a cup of wine, and I, looking deep into her dear, dark eyes tell her I'll have something much better in a moment (morphine). No, she'd really like just "this much" (indicated with her fingers) madeira. "The medicine probably wouldn't be good with wine, sweetheart", I say.

The morphine comes from Gab's shaking hand, and Minnie makes us giggle by sucking it rather comically in an eager way.

Her 02 on 2 liters is between 89 and 92, HR is about 62, blood pressure 86/40. Temp, unfortunately is in celcius and I can't read the stupid thing. Lowish, though, I'm sure.

I wrangle another aide to help me; a good girl named Cass, and we gently dress Minnie is flannel pajamas, a "brief" (some might call this a "diaper", which we do not call them, for dignity's sake), and Cass removes the soaked socks. Minnie's legs have small droplets of fluid collecting, which reminds me of an injured sapling.

The doctor calls and tells us not to ship Minnie, that there is nothing more to be done but supportive care.

Eventually, our very dear DON arrives, calls family to come. The doctor has confirmed Joe's (and all of our) initial thoughts which is that Minnie will not last the night.

I flip through residents, getting those that need help ready for bed, fixing soup for old Dan who's refused to come down for dinner and has been waiting for me. Other's pitch in, though we've all been incredibly taxed this night, when many residents are struggling though difficulty. I'm grateful, and eventually, with head and feet elevated, Minnie is in bed, lying on waterproof pads in the unlikely event that her kidney suddenly decides to work again. "Sleep well", I say, as I turn down lights.

I think of gentle, quiet Joe all night. "I just got her back", he sobs, very, very quietly.