Week Four: Pivotal progresses, bless the bureaucrats (I think)
To be blessed with a great life partner and a caring caregiver, is like winning the State lottery, twice.
Surviving Week Four was pivotal, which I'm happy to report we got through, more or less unscathed.
In spite of a granite wall of dumb bureaucracy experienced from a local support service group out-patients are directed to, there are small progresses to report.
Earlier with my old Type A heart ablaze, I would have railed on about top-heavy companies staffed by administrative pathetic incompetents. That was then, this is now, as I'm attempting to practice the gentle art of exhaling. I'm now more concerned about what's good for my new pump, rather than their unfulfilled work services and broken promises.
There was lots of treacle-like bafflegab shoveled my way earlier today, as our anonymous case-worker explained how her out- reach organization was terribly overworked and underfunded. Maybe so, but from my perspective, her problem was fast becoming my problem. I'm trying hard not to imagine a character here with a crow like fondness for sparkly things.
Actually, it was just a sordid discussion about managing your buttons and beads.
I'd wager a box of bandages, there were no pay/staff cuts on the admin side to solve her plan-to-performance challenges! To me, this was just another all too familiar story within the health sector, whereby troops in the trenches are performing simply impossible tasks daily, all the while their administrative counterparts seem oblivious to patient and co-worker needs. It's always another manufactured crisis, or the sky is falling in, with these folk. It's seldom about, accountability.
After two doctors, the prescribing nurse and an internal supervisor collectively recommended in my case their much vaulted home nursing service once a week, she has stamped my file, R E J E C T, due to economies of scale. Perhaps a quadruple by-pass operation was the benchmark for their perceived assistance in this case. Who knows? In the end, they failed me -- but mostly themselves -- which isn't the end of the earth.
What I find somewhat galling is their brochure copy, which proudly states to new patients like me: "DEDICATION to those we serve. COMMITMENT to excellence in what we do; and, PASSION to be the best!" Their printed words, not mine.
Who am I in a weak and drugged state to remind administrators and their case-workers, that it's all about people and stuff? First, last, and everywhere in between. Words such as DEDICATION, COMMITMENT and PASSION are no more than weasel-words, if not actioned upon properly at source. Bean-counters should be encouraged to earn these noble words the hard way, ultimately through a DEDICATED process of garnering more respect from their front-line co-workers and clients alike, no matter what budget constraints might prevail. You can only play the Budget Card for so long, then the Respect Card inevitably is dished back by staff and client. Maybe, it's your turn to play the Brave Card, and recommend system changes to those gnomes, several pay-grades above you. Not unlike cardiac recoverees, you must have a burning desire to win. To build a winning team, you will require PASSION and experience to succeed beyond all else. COMMIT- MENT often requires having the fortitude to hire enough of the right people, all up and down the line, starting maybe at your lofty position. Disbursing enough of the right passionate people out in the field, is also the real stuff. In spite of a possible relentless pursuit of inefficiency here, people stuff is the only stuff required, for your group to become accountable within your peer group and ultimately to your medically challenged target audience. Fresh thought and focus becomes all the more pressing, if you're in, oh I don't know, say maybe the critical illness recovery sector. I didn't hear much DEDICATION earlier today, rather a well rehearsed case of bureaucratic drag.
Does this make any sense to public sector crackberry admin types, as you scurry from one more budget meeting, to wherever? Trust me, there's more to life, than waiting and hoping for an indexed pension. Save that kind of hope for condemned criminals, waiting for their far-off faint hope hearing. Both, seem far-out waisted spent energy exercises, anyway. From what I've observed lately, this all resonates badly with your dedicated co-workers -- often serving your mandate on a contract basis -- who perform simply yeoman services on each shift, down there where blood meets the bandage. Either fix your problems, or flee.
I don't know why I'm thinking of an old Forbes quote right now, that might be applicable in this instance: "If you are not bloodying your nose in today's warp speed economy, we have a name for you. Dead." Corporately speaking, of course.
But enough, it's time to inhale some fresh air. Let's move on to more positive ground. There's plenty of good stuff to report.
Monday, was the day Patty went back to work. I think I'm also well enough to start the lion's share of my healing phase alone. I think.
To resolve this morning's schedules, I showered right after the caregiver, dried most of myself off, in nothing short of ten minutes. Actually, we worked well as a team, with minimal inconvenience in and around her pressing morning schedules.
The bottom line: I was showered, dressed, had breakfast and delivered a cup of tea upstairs to the caregiver by 7:59am. Most of the week has followed in a similar fashion. Now, that's progress, in spite of any low flying crow formations running interference!
THIS WEEK, WE ALSO HAD our first post-op meeting with the surgeon since The-Day -- now almost a month ago. Barring a small frown looking at my leg area, he's pleased with the results. I'm happy, that he's happy, so adieu with many thanks. Later, I'm shuffling down the hospital corridors and started to chuckle to myself. Patty looks at me with a quiet, "Whaat?"
"Can you ever imagine spending $800 for a great meal with close friends, only to be hustled out of the restaurant by the maitre d' who has double booked your table?" I said, more concentrating on the oncoming visitors and H staff, than looking for her visual response.
This was sort of the same feeling just now experienced with The-Man, but I took it all in stride. We've now made it to Timmies and the Gift Shop on the main floor, and I'm quietly thinking to myself, I come from the land of Time Is Money. I get it. "Thanks, Doc. No, really; thanks, Doc!"
This is becomeing a tiring afternoon. Only a few more turns until the exit. We're now out of the front door, until the next time. Fresh air, at last.
FAST-FORWARD to Friday: With a little practice, I'm showering myself daily, drying off without any help, and dressing up in all manner of bulky garments. I've sliced a few strategic slits in an old left slipper, to compensate for a larger fluid-filled foot. This is also one of those rare occasions, when there are side benefits to being a lifelong hoarder. Without making any further fashion statements, I've also recently stumbled upon an old pair of tennis shoes, that can accommodate an over sized left foot. What a lovely miss-match. You have to get your 15 minute walks these days, from many creative quarters. The upshot here has resulted in several quick sunny afternoon sprints this week to the mailbox, and around the block.
Either way you cut, slice, or dice it; my arm and leg may be on the mend, but they're still two ugly looking mothers.
Since mid-week, we're now both learning the morning procedures on how to dress a 12 inch leg wound with a festering bump in the mid-section, that suspiciously fits the term: a pig in a python. This is terribly daunting, at first. You have to wash most overnight guck off the wound in the shower, saline the infected area when you first come out of the shower, damp down the infected area, apply the ointment and quickly cover up the entire area with a new strip of bandage. It isn't rocket science, just another 7-10 precious minutes fitted into an already tight morning program. Patty did a darned good job at it today.
The above illustrated occasion is but one example of new stress minefields, that often await fatigued caregivers -- especially, when/if community or for-profit support services can't meet their patient's pressing concerns. And their mandated business objectives.
Until this week, I delicately traversed each stairway step sideways, one-by-one. Now, I take them -- albeit slowly -- like the big boys do, even laden down each morning with a caregiver's cup of hot tea, accompanied by the ever trusty red heart pillow wedged under my chin. Onward and upward, as they say.
The left foot/right foot thing is finally working itself out, too, while dressing each morning. I still can't do such taken-for-granted chores, like raising both arms at the same time, but my left arm is about 80% back to normal -- actually more, if you overlook the tenderness factor. In this key area, little things are slowly coming back to norm. I can now open a can of soup, read the morning newspaper with one arm up higher than the other, gingerly hold a fork or spoon in my left hand, brush my teeth after each meal, and shave most days. These little life building blocks have precious meaning today. Several weeks ago, they were unthinkable. Earlier, taken for granted. Not anymore.
My weight has stalled out at minus-five, meaning a five pound weight loss since The-Day. I want to address food intake and exercise next week with focus, in spite of too many leftover Halloween goodies and the sudden appearance of a humongous Chelsea Bun, that somehow showed up in the pantry over the weekend. Thanks Darlene, you wicked thing. There's still a goal out there somewhere, to be minus-fifteen before Christmas. Well, maybe minus-ten, at this rate.
A quiet concern, is the strain this is all being placed on my precious caregiver. There's double duties now at work, as well as the usual bucket of chores waiting for her at home at the end of her work day. Week Four was an overload. This past week, we had prior-scheduled hospital appointments that extended around a very long lunch period, plus two evening visits with the bureaucrats at 5:30pm, which resulted in long stressed days for all concerned. I'm advised, tomorrow will be the ninth - count 'em, nine times - we've visited either the Emergency ward, hospital specialists, new/regular GP doctors and local support services for my bum leg. Enough, guys. It would be nice if you could arrive at some consensus soon, rather than swiping my Health Card with alarming regularity.
It's apparent, I've got to step it up on my side, too. More light household chores and walks are on the agenda this week. I just wish I could do more.
Overall though, what a quantum leap of progress in less than 30 days!
Surviving Week Four was pivotal, which I'm happy to report we got through, more or less unscathed.
In spite of a granite wall of dumb bureaucracy experienced from a local support service group out-patients are directed to, there are small progresses to report.
Earlier with my old Type A heart ablaze, I would have railed on about top-heavy companies staffed by administrative pathetic incompetents. That was then, this is now, as I'm attempting to practice the gentle art of exhaling. I'm now more concerned about what's good for my new pump, rather than their unfulfilled work services and broken promises.
There was lots of treacle-like bafflegab shoveled my way earlier today, as our anonymous case-worker explained how her out- reach organization was terribly overworked and underfunded. Maybe so, but from my perspective, her problem was fast becoming my problem. I'm trying hard not to imagine a character here with a crow like fondness for sparkly things.
Actually, it was just a sordid discussion about managing your buttons and beads.
I'd wager a box of bandages, there were no pay/staff cuts on the admin side to solve her plan-to-performance challenges! To me, this was just another all too familiar story within the health sector, whereby troops in the trenches are performing simply impossible tasks daily, all the while their administrative counterparts seem oblivious to patient and co-worker needs. It's always another manufactured crisis, or the sky is falling in, with these folk. It's seldom about, accountability.
After two doctors, the prescribing nurse and an internal supervisor collectively recommended in my case their much vaulted home nursing service once a week, she has stamped my file, R E J E C T, due to economies of scale. Perhaps a quadruple by-pass operation was the benchmark for their perceived assistance in this case. Who knows? In the end, they failed me -- but mostly themselves -- which isn't the end of the earth.
What I find somewhat galling is their brochure copy, which proudly states to new patients like me: "DEDICATION to those we serve. COMMITMENT to excellence in what we do; and, PASSION to be the best!" Their printed words, not mine.
Who am I in a weak and drugged state to remind administrators and their case-workers, that it's all about people and stuff? First, last, and everywhere in between. Words such as DEDICATION, COMMITMENT and PASSION are no more than weasel-words, if not actioned upon properly at source. Bean-counters should be encouraged to earn these noble words the hard way, ultimately through a DEDICATED process of garnering more respect from their front-line co-workers and clients alike, no matter what budget constraints might prevail. You can only play the Budget Card for so long, then the Respect Card inevitably is dished back by staff and client. Maybe, it's your turn to play the Brave Card, and recommend system changes to those gnomes, several pay-grades above you. Not unlike cardiac recoverees, you must have a burning desire to win. To build a winning team, you will require PASSION and experience to succeed beyond all else. COMMIT- MENT often requires having the fortitude to hire enough of the right people, all up and down the line, starting maybe at your lofty position. Disbursing enough of the right passionate people out in the field, is also the real stuff. In spite of a possible relentless pursuit of inefficiency here, people stuff is the only stuff required, for your group to become accountable within your peer group and ultimately to your medically challenged target audience. Fresh thought and focus becomes all the more pressing, if you're in, oh I don't know, say maybe the critical illness recovery sector. I didn't hear much DEDICATION earlier today, rather a well rehearsed case of bureaucratic drag.
Does this make any sense to public sector crackberry admin types, as you scurry from one more budget meeting, to wherever? Trust me, there's more to life, than waiting and hoping for an indexed pension. Save that kind of hope for condemned criminals, waiting for their far-off faint hope hearing. Both, seem far-out waisted spent energy exercises, anyway. From what I've observed lately, this all resonates badly with your dedicated co-workers -- often serving your mandate on a contract basis -- who perform simply yeoman services on each shift, down there where blood meets the bandage. Either fix your problems, or flee.
I don't know why I'm thinking of an old Forbes quote right now, that might be applicable in this instance: "If you are not bloodying your nose in today's warp speed economy, we have a name for you. Dead." Corporately speaking, of course.
But enough, it's time to inhale some fresh air. Let's move on to more positive ground. There's plenty of good stuff to report.
Monday, was the day Patty went back to work. I think I'm also well enough to start the lion's share of my healing phase alone. I think.
To resolve this morning's schedules, I showered right after the caregiver, dried most of myself off, in nothing short of ten minutes. Actually, we worked well as a team, with minimal inconvenience in and around her pressing morning schedules.
The bottom line: I was showered, dressed, had breakfast and delivered a cup of tea upstairs to the caregiver by 7:59am. Most of the week has followed in a similar fashion. Now, that's progress, in spite of any low flying crow formations running interference!
THIS WEEK, WE ALSO HAD our first post-op meeting with the surgeon since The-Day -- now almost a month ago. Barring a small frown looking at my leg area, he's pleased with the results. I'm happy, that he's happy, so adieu with many thanks. Later, I'm shuffling down the hospital corridors and started to chuckle to myself. Patty looks at me with a quiet, "Whaat?"
"Can you ever imagine spending $800 for a great meal with close friends, only to be hustled out of the restaurant by the maitre d' who has double booked your table?" I said, more concentrating on the oncoming visitors and H staff, than looking for her visual response.
This was sort of the same feeling just now experienced with The-Man, but I took it all in stride. We've now made it to Timmies and the Gift Shop on the main floor, and I'm quietly thinking to myself, I come from the land of Time Is Money. I get it. "Thanks, Doc. No, really; thanks, Doc!"
This is becomeing a tiring afternoon. Only a few more turns until the exit. We're now out of the front door, until the next time. Fresh air, at last.
FAST-FORWARD to Friday: With a little practice, I'm showering myself daily, drying off without any help, and dressing up in all manner of bulky garments. I've sliced a few strategic slits in an old left slipper, to compensate for a larger fluid-filled foot. This is also one of those rare occasions, when there are side benefits to being a lifelong hoarder. Without making any further fashion statements, I've also recently stumbled upon an old pair of tennis shoes, that can accommodate an over sized left foot. What a lovely miss-match. You have to get your 15 minute walks these days, from many creative quarters. The upshot here has resulted in several quick sunny afternoon sprints this week to the mailbox, and around the block.
Either way you cut, slice, or dice it; my arm and leg may be on the mend, but they're still two ugly looking mothers.
Since mid-week, we're now both learning the morning procedures on how to dress a 12 inch leg wound with a festering bump in the mid-section, that suspiciously fits the term: a pig in a python. This is terribly daunting, at first. You have to wash most overnight guck off the wound in the shower, saline the infected area when you first come out of the shower, damp down the infected area, apply the ointment and quickly cover up the entire area with a new strip of bandage. It isn't rocket science, just another 7-10 precious minutes fitted into an already tight morning program. Patty did a darned good job at it today.
The above illustrated occasion is but one example of new stress minefields, that often await fatigued caregivers -- especially, when/if community or for-profit support services can't meet their patient's pressing concerns. And their mandated business objectives.
Until this week, I delicately traversed each stairway step sideways, one-by-one. Now, I take them -- albeit slowly -- like the big boys do, even laden down each morning with a caregiver's cup of hot tea, accompanied by the ever trusty red heart pillow wedged under my chin. Onward and upward, as they say.
The left foot/right foot thing is finally working itself out, too, while dressing each morning. I still can't do such taken-for-granted chores, like raising both arms at the same time, but my left arm is about 80% back to normal -- actually more, if you overlook the tenderness factor. In this key area, little things are slowly coming back to norm. I can now open a can of soup, read the morning newspaper with one arm up higher than the other, gingerly hold a fork or spoon in my left hand, brush my teeth after each meal, and shave most days. These little life building blocks have precious meaning today. Several weeks ago, they were unthinkable. Earlier, taken for granted. Not anymore.
My weight has stalled out at minus-five, meaning a five pound weight loss since The-Day. I want to address food intake and exercise next week with focus, in spite of too many leftover Halloween goodies and the sudden appearance of a humongous Chelsea Bun, that somehow showed up in the pantry over the weekend. Thanks Darlene, you wicked thing. There's still a goal out there somewhere, to be minus-fifteen before Christmas. Well, maybe minus-ten, at this rate.
A quiet concern, is the strain this is all being placed on my precious caregiver. There's double duties now at work, as well as the usual bucket of chores waiting for her at home at the end of her work day. Week Four was an overload. This past week, we had prior-scheduled hospital appointments that extended around a very long lunch period, plus two evening visits with the bureaucrats at 5:30pm, which resulted in long stressed days for all concerned. I'm advised, tomorrow will be the ninth - count 'em, nine times - we've visited either the Emergency ward, hospital specialists, new/regular GP doctors and local support services for my bum leg. Enough, guys. It would be nice if you could arrive at some consensus soon, rather than swiping my Health Card with alarming regularity.
It's apparent, I've got to step it up on my side, too. More light household chores and walks are on the agenda this week. I just wish I could do more.
Overall though, what a quantum leap of progress in less than 30 days!
posted by leisurelan at 10:39 PM
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