I have my neighbours blood on my hands. Lots and lots of blood. All over my white pants too, as it happens. It was a bloody end to a not all that glorious day. It goes like this. After coming home from hospital just over two weeks ago, Margaret has been noticeably weaker and far less mobile. On Wednesday she had to activate her panic alarm twice to summons the ambulance when she fell and couldn't get up. There was no way she would have been able to get to her weekly hairdressing appointment on her own so I offered to take her. Getting her in and out of the cab was something of a nightmare. In fact, as we left the cab the driver said to me "you've got a difficult job". Turns out he was more spot on than even I realised. I wasn't sure if we would make it the short walk from the shopping centre entrance to the hairdressers. Her knee looked like it was going to give and we had to stop and let her sit to rest. But once in the hairdresser's chair she came to life. She was happily telling the hairdresser about my dogs and how they'd come to visit her after the fall on Wednesday night. They sat on her bed. They gave her a kiss goodnight, she proudly recounted. Of course while it was all good in that moment in the back of my mind was the thought that we had to get her home again and back up those stairs. It was not pretty. Her toes were bloodied, apparently from the wheelie walker and the second we got through the front door she collapsed on the floor. I summonsed my son and together we hauled her into a chair. I sat with her while she regained composure and when she was safe to be on her own went back to my house to collect her groceries. The dogs and I returned. A bit of doggie love had calmed the situation on Wednesday so let's repeat the strategy. Another 15 minutes passed by which stage it seemed safe to see if she could get back on her feet and out of the doorway. She managed to make it to her favourite spot at the window. While the dogs fussed over her, I sat on the floor with her feet on my knees and started dressing her toes .... and then it all went to hell in a basket. A magpie flew in after mince. The dogs jumped over Margaret after the bird and in an instant I was covered in blood pumping from an old wound on her leg which the end of a dog's claw had broken open. Blood was everywhere. I used everything I could find to try and stop the bleeding - well almost everything. There was one hanky in arm's reach I was not allowed to use. "That's my good hanky". Because when you have blood pumping out of a leg wound you'd be worried about ruining a hanky. The dogs were sent home. The ambulance was called. The paramedic was telling Margaret that perhaps she needed an aged care assessment, more assistance or a nursing home. She said she was doing well thank you very much and all would have been fine if only I'd left the dogs at home. What the actual f***. There have been so many falls and every time the fault belongs to someone or some thing not related to the hideous process of aging. I understand that denial is perfectly natural in the circumstances but I admit blaming either me or my dogs really hurt. It should not have but it did. Quite a lot actually. The paramedic told me not to worry. It was an accident and the kindest thing I could do was a bit of tough love. I should stop buying groceries, stop running errands, stop chaperoning visits. A reality check was needed and it should happen before I end up hurting myself. I'm not good at tough love. I'm not much good at self care but if you want to bring out the fight in me, implicating my dogs is a pretty good place to start. Perhaps this is the reality check we all needed. Somehow I doubt it.
I have my neighbours blood on my hands. Lots and lots of blood. All over my white pants too, as it happens. It was a bloody end to a not all that glorious day. It goes like this. After coming home from hospital just over two weeks ago, Margaret has been noticeably weaker and far less mobile. On Wednesday she had to activate her panic alarm twice to summons the ambulance when she fell and couldn't get up. There was no way she would have been able to get to her weekly hairdressing appointment on her own so I offered to take her. Getting her in and out of the cab was something of a nightmare. In fact, as we left the cab the driver said to me "you've got a difficult job". Turns out he was more spot on than even I realised. I wasn't sure if we would make it the short walk from the shopping centre entrance to the hairdressers. Her knee looked like it was going to give and we had to stop and let her sit to rest. But once in the hairdresser's chair she came to life. She was happily telling the hairdresser about my dogs and how they'd come to visit her after the fall on Wednesday night. They sat on her bed. They gave her a kiss goodnight, she proudly recounted. Of course while it was all good in that moment in the back of my mind was the thought that we had to get her home again and back up those stairs. It was not pretty. Her toes were bloodied, apparently from the wheelie walker and the second we got through the front door she collapsed on the floor. I summonsed my son and together we hauled her into a chair. I sat with her while she regained composure and when she was safe to be on her own went back to my house to collect her groceries. The dogs and I returned. A bit of doggie love had calmed the situation on Wednesday so let's repeat the strategy. Another 15 minutes passed by which stage it seemed safe to see if she could get back on her feet and out of the doorway. She managed to make it to her favourite spot at the window. While the dogs fussed over her, I sat on the floor with her feet on my knees and started dressing her toes .... and then it all went to hell in a basket. A magpie flew in after mince. The dogs jumped over Margaret after the bird and in an instant I was covered in blood pumping from an old wound on her leg which the end of a dog's claw had broken open. Blood was everywhere. I used everything I could find to try and stop the bleeding - well almost everything. There was one hanky in arm's reach I was not allowed to use. "That's my good hanky". Because when you have blood pumping out of a leg wound you'd be worried about ruining a hanky. The dogs were sent home. The ambulance was called. The paramedic was telling Margaret that perhaps she needed an aged care assessment, more assistance or a nursing home. She said she was doing well thank you very much and all would have been fine if only I'd left the dogs at home. What the actual f***. There have been so many falls and every time the fault belongs to someone or some thing not related to the hideous process of aging. I understand that denial is perfectly natural in the circumstances but I admit blaming either me or my dogs really hurt. It should not have but it did. Quite a lot actually. The paramedic told me not to worry. It was an accident and the kindest thing I could do was a bit of tough love. I should stop buying groceries, stop running errands, stop chaperoning visits. A reality check was needed and it should happen before I end up hurting myself. I'm not good at tough love. I'm not much good at self care but if you want to bring out the fight in me, implicating my dogs is a pretty good place to start. Perhaps this is the reality check we all needed. Somehow I doubt it.
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