September 2nd, 2024Just sayin’…

By Donna Kelly

I managed to break my wrist, in two spots, during a recent weekend celebrating Kyle’s dad’s 80th over  in New Zealand.  

It happened on the Saturday night,  I must admit after a couple of wines,  but there was also a very slippy patch on the lawn where a tree had recently  been removed.  

We were heading home on the  Monday so I hoped it was just a sprain and nursed it back to Australia.  

I went to the doctor who was  worried I had broken my scaphoid  which is apparently quite a bad thing to do. It’s also known as the snuff  box – sort of the spot between the base  of your forefinger and your thumb – I  guess where people used to put stuff to  snuff.  

If that was the case it was going to be about eight weeks in a cast which would  have been a real pain with showering and plastic bags etc.  But the x-ray showed it was a bit lower down, or is that higher up the wrist, and  all I have to do is wear a wrist brace for a few weeks while it knits up.

And I can still type, which Kyle is pretty happy about. Would be a slow news day every day if I had to rely on Kyle and his two-finger typing for the paper.  

So I am pretty happy and also very pleased that I live in Australia. Someone asked  if I had thought about getting an x-ray in NZ but that is a hard no. Especially where  we were up north of the north island.  

Kyle’s step-mother died a couple of years ago after about six months of severe back pain, so bad she was doing nightly trips to the local hospital in an ambulance.  Each time they sent her home, telling her the last time, she needed to walk  around more because she was basically being lazy.

I kid you not.  Then came the call that the tests, finally done, revealed she had stage four bone cancer in her back – and was heading to palliative care.  

More recently, after years of grieving, Kyle’s dad put himself back onto the  market and met a lovely woman who we were introduced to at the party weekend.  

Di had some pretty bad stomach pains happening and a few days after we left she got a call to say the tests showed she had stage four bowel cancer.  But, and this is the rub, they were happy to catch up with her in six weeks to  have a chat about moving forward.

No mention of pain relief, mental health help, nothing. You couldn’t write this stuff. And of course, they are of an age where doctor knows best and there is no-one to advocate for them.  

I felt lucky that the few times Mum needed help I could be there for her. She  had a fall once, straight onto her back, off a stool that she apparently needed to find something on a top shelf in the kitchen.  

Anyway, she had to go into respite care for six weeks but was lucky enough  to find something just over the way from her retirement village unit – in the same  complex. But when we arrived there was just a bed.  

I asked whether there was a television happening? No. A chair for visitors? No. Not sure what they thought Mum would do for six weeks in an empty room but Kyle just marched back to her place and returned the first time with a comfy armchair and then on the second trip, a television.

While she was there, they had a food poisoning outbreak and closed off all the  rooms so the patients could not spread anything around. I remember visiting one day  and asking when the movement ban would be lifted. It turned out to be the previous day but they hadn’t got around to telling patients or removing strict signs. FFS.  

Finally, Mum was given clearance to return home, but the head matron told me she thought Mum should stay one more night. I asked why and didn’t get a real reason. I think there must be some nice government funding available for high needs people. Or is that just me being cynical.

Anyway, Mum went home that day.  Not sure what to do about Di. Do we head back over and try to fix a broken medical system? Or leave Di to die?

Can you pay for advocates or do they have to be related to the patient to get involved?  Not sure on this one. Just sayin’…