My Shitty Week

I have always had certain standards on this blog. They were low, but they were still there.

UNTIL NOW.

Because I'm about to talk about my shitty week, and I mean that quite literally. So settle in. Perhaps don't grab something to eat though, OK?

It all started when I went to the doctor to get a script for a lower dose of anti depressants (yay). In my doctor's assessment she was asking how I was going and I was all "still tired, still no energy, but I reckon that's motherhood, yo!" and to be thorough she ordered blood tests and sent me off with a script for half the dose I've been on since THE BREAKDOWN dun dun dunnnnn.

I rock up for my blood test and the phlebotomist was amazing, I didn't feel a thing. She took SEVEN VIALS of blood, all while Bobbin watched and asked about vampires. Awkward. We walked out and down the mall ten metres to the shop where I was exchanging Macaroni Cheese (because the world stopped turning when the incorrect Mac'n'cheese was bought the day before) only to look down and find my arm covered in blood.

Turns out as I picked up my bag, I dislodged the mini clot that was forming and looked like I'd been stabbed. You're all "I don't think so" right now, but I assure you, there was blood everywhere and I was in a dodgy suburb, so a stab wound is the first thing that would have come to mind.

A few days later I'm called back for the test results. I'm extremely anaemic and my B12 is through the floor. So the tiredness may not just be motherhood after all. Whodhavethunkit?

Doc wants repeat bloods (through the giant bruise - ouch) to check for other bits and pieces then casually remarks "and I think we should do a poo test, too".

Ah, shit. Lit-er-ally.

I am so poo phobic. I don't even do poo jokes, which makes living with a 7yo boy quite painful approximately 1,734 times a day.

Now my grandmother died of bowel cancer at 60 so despite the fear, It was time to put my big girl pants on, or rather, take my big girl pants off, and just do it. I straightened myself in the chair, suddenly aware of how many asses had sat on it and asked tentatively "Um, how do I do that?"

"Here," she said, grabbing a couple of tongue depressors, "use these."

What the actual fuck? What am I meant to do, shove these up my butt? You have GOT to be kidding me!

"Grab a kit from pathology on your way out, you just smear it on the cardboard and bring it in, it's just the same as the bowel cancer screening you mail in."

OK. I can handle this. A bit of a self pep talk, and she'll be right. It can't be much worse than seeing skid mark undies of kids who are learning to wipe, right? * clutches at straws *

I head to the pathology desk but instead of some pieces of cardboard she hands me three sample jars.

Dude. No.

Jars? THREE JARS?

They look just like the urine specimen jars except they're white so you can't see what is in them, with brown lids so you fucking know what is in them anyway. Thanks, specimen pot creator, as if this wasn't bad enough already.

The slip with jars says they're for a "faecal occult blood sample".

Err, is my poo joining the occult? Does it worship Satan or is it more of a dabbling in witchcraft? Does my poo like rams heads on the walls and listen to shitty music? Oh dear god, my poo better not be fucking emo. I couldn't handle that.

I have built up a rapport with my doctor and it was hard enough to ask her what I was meant to do, so asking a random pathology chick who had just stabbed me through a giant bruise was just not going to happen. So I did what everyone else does when they're afraid of medical things. I turned to Dr Google.

Dr Google, in her infinite wisdom, let me know that faecal occult and The Occult are, thankfully, completely different things. Well, yes, I did assume that, but it is nice to have it confirmed that I won't be yearning to listen to My Chemical Romance as I sit on the toilet any time soon.

It also informed me that I needed to make a "walnut sized" deposit in to said brown lidded jars on three occasions so that the health of multiple parts of the bowel could be tested in one go. I will never look at walnuts the same way again. Waldorf salads are henceforth banned in this house.

The sample is made, and now I just had to deposit the, err, deposit, back to the pathology desk... which didn't open that day. Fuck me dead, I had to STORE IT IN MY FRIDGE.

"Honey, where is the salami?"

"Oh, just next to my POO SAMPLE, dear!"

Kill me. Just bloody kill me.

Getting ready the next day looked slightly different to usual as I went through my check list and put everything in our bag for the outing:

• Water bottles
• Snacks
• Hats
• Sunscreen
• Poo sample
• Sunglasses

I've had two babies, which means I've had a whole lot of people with their hands up my jacksy, checking it all out, giving me ultrasounds and I've twice had my feet up in stirrups for surgery, and I thought that was pretty undignified. In my books, this was worse. I am such a wuss. I would take a gynaecologist with a cold speculum over this any day.

But (butt?) still, I did it. Because they've seen it all before, and I wouldn't be the first or the last to drop off a sample with a poo brown lid to the lady at the pathology clinic.

I haven't been called for any results, which in my local GP's world means nothing to report, so that means I'm not losing blood in my bowel. So yay for that. But next time can they just knock me out and stick a camera up there so I get a day of sleep?

Heartache and help

I have this heart condition.

I've had it for years but it's been pretty good for such a long time now that I don't see anyone for it. I was discharged about 18 months ago from from my follow up program because I was doing so well. Hooray for me.

Except recently, this heart condition flared up.

I was really ill.

So I did what I was always told to do when I felt like my heart was going to give out and headed to my GP for a referral to a specialist. 

My 'emergency referral' got me an appointment a MONTH away.

I knew I wouldn't be able to last a month with my heart like this. Doing it's own thing, getting sicker by the day. I'd be dead in a week. The specialist said go to the emergency department in the meantime.

A friend took me to the ED on a Monday night and I was assessed. Yes, my heart was just about to give out, but since I had kids they didn't think it would give out any time soon. 

I didn't understand. What does having kids have to do with it? No medication was started, the nurse said it was because I might have an anaphylactic reaction to it and they didn't want to be responsible for that. Um, OK?

I was left by myself for a while, then discharged alone at midnight having been promised that a referral to Hospital in the Home (HITH) had been made, and that it was HITH that would take care of my heart with medication. 

At home my heart got sicker, but I waited, thinking HITH would come and help me soon. We got referrals to three private heart hospitals and two public, putting our eggs in as many baskets as we could. Hoping there would be space somewhere. That someone would help my poor heart.

We learned that the private heart hospital would charge us $420 per day for me to stay there, after my private health had paid. And that that wouldn't cover specialist fees or medications. You have to be rich to be sick, it would seem, even in Australia. 

MG had two weeks off work to look after me and the kids because I couldn't get out of bed let alone be an actual parent. I've been absent from school drop offs and using the last of my energy to do a few fun things with the kids, wondering all the while if today would be the day that my heart would give out totally. If today would be the day I left my kids without a mother.

MG made a stack of phone calls to the hospital and was put through to all sorts of departments. Some had no record of me, some said the referral was pending, others said it had never been sent. There were no straight answers and we could never speak to the same person twice. 

Finally, at the end of the week MG got through to the correct person by pure chance and we learned that the HITH referral had gone through and been rejected as they didn't have any room.

I'd been desperately waiting for this "virtual bed" and no one had told us it wasn't available, and they hadn't referred on to another service like they should have.

So me and my heart were just left to fend for ourselves, desperate for medication, clinging on for dear life, back to square one as if we hadn't asked for help at all. 

I took another trip to the ED the following Monday as my heart had become much, much worse. I was finally seen by the heart team who noticed that they hadn't been called to see me last time when they should have been. They were so lovely. They said they had a bed upstairs on the heart ward for me and even gave me a starting dose of medication and had no idea why the previous nurse told me I couldn't have it.

But then, as quickly as it was given, the bed upstairs was taken away. Someone else needed it. There are lots of broken hearts, all needing help.

And as quickly as the bed upstairs was taken, so was my cubicle in emergency. I was now on a stretcher in the corridor.

Hours passed. A nurse checked on me once to find my heart was in a very bad way, I told them it hurt more than I could ever remember it hurting. He called over to another nurse and a passing doctor rolled his eyes and said "ugh, of course her heart hurts" then, trying to imitate my voice said "somebody pay attention to me".

I broke down. I couldn't believe I was being mocked for asking for help. 

I was informed that they'd stopped looking for a bed for me since all the receptionists would stop work in an hour, and that they would try again tomorrow... that I could spend the night on the stretcher in the corridor and try to get some sleep.

Have you ever been on stretcher in a emergency department corridor? Sleep is not really forthcoming. There were five or six empty bays that we could see from that corner of the corridor, but I wasn't allowed one of them, they were for "sick people" who would come in through the night, not for those with sore hearts.

MG and I decided I would be better in my own bed and tried to discharge but the doctor wouldn't let us. He kept saying "you're in a bed in a hospital" whenever MG or I mentioned the words stretcher or corridor.

We asked to talk to someone higher up. A few nurses (all lovely) came by to try and convince me to stay, but we again requested to leave. Being surrounded by so much trauma was making my heart hurt even more at this stage.

Finally, a nice doctor came to us and agreed that a corridor stretcher wasn't really ideal and said that it was likely I'd be waiting on that stretcher for four to five days for a bed to become available in the heart ward, and it might be better if I went home to wait it out.

I signed the forms and was discharged.

At home over the coming days we chased more referrals. The hospital had actually sent the referral this time (hooray), but to the wrong centre (groan), so MG, acting as both nurse and personal assistant, kept calling as many places as he could. 

Most said call again later, or that they'd get back to us. Two weeks later we've only heard from one of those places (to say no), the rest still haven't returned our calls.

Finally, we decided that it was worth a shot showing up at the local community heart clinic, without a referral, to beg for help.

I almost wept with relief when they said they would fit me in.

An amazing nurse (are you sensing a theme here? nurses are awesome) took me through and my heart was examined. It was really, really sick, but I had gotten there just in time. He recommended a course of treatment, got it written up by the doctor, and let me know which additional services he was referring me to... and then actually referred me to them. 

He said that my case is far from uncommon and recommended I never go to that particular emergency room ever again. 

He referred me to HITH again so now I am in the community clinic and the Hospital in the Home - where nurses and doctors visit me daily to make sure my heart is OK and that the medication is kicking in. 

It took two weeks of begging, being told that I was an attention seeker, being discharged without care, two emergency room visits, four GP visits, endless phonecalls, the tireless work of MG and that one amazing nurse to get medication started; to get the care that I needed.

As I see how much effort it took to get medical care I can't help but think that everyday people like you and me would find this delay in treating a heart condition appalling. 

But go back and change "heart" to mental illness, and this is exactly what is happening. What happened to me these past few weeks. And it's happening everywhere and we just accept it. 

The stigma of mental illness in the community is greatly reducing, but it remains high in the hospital, the very place we are meant to go for help. Medical professionals not taking it seriously; mocking patients; not bothering to put in referrals; providing a lower standard of care than they would someone with a physical condition. 

It's time to stop accepting that this is just the way it is. It's time to stop punishing those with mental illness. It's time we realised that mental illness is just as real as a heart condition, diabetes, or a broken leg. 

The career aspirations of a 3.5 year old

I'm having a love hate relationship with the age of 3.5. I absolutely adore the jokes, the enthusiasm, the questions (except for the incessant "why?"), the getting dressed with minimal help, the solo toileting and so on. Watching Tricky bloom and grow in confidence is amazing.

I'm less enamored with the way everything revolves around bodily function and waste products.  EVERYTHING.

For Christmas, Tricks got a doctors' kit. Stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, that whatchamacallit they put in your ears, a thermometer, the whole shebang. He thought it was the ant's pants. Dr Tricky frequently makes his rounds, checking us all out and making sure we're well. If we're sick, he gives us medicine and declares we have to wait until we feel better before playing cars. Thanks, dude.

A few weeks ago, Map Guy and Tricks were playing a game of "make a diagnosis without the help of Google" which involved a lot of blood pressure pumping and temperature taking. MG picked up the thermometer and thought it would be a good idea to tell him how it worked.

"Do you know where you can measure temperature?"

"In your ear and under your arm!"

"Yep, and under your tongue, and... up your bottom!"

Cue hysterical laughter from the boy.

I shot daggers at MG across the room. He didn't just tell a derriere obsessed preschooler that you stick thermometers up bums did he? It is bad enough when the kid comes around and shoves that plastic stick in your ribs (too short to reach our underarms), and now it means he'll sneak up on us and firmly plant it between the butt cheeks. I'm puckering just thinking of it.

I had visions of being on the phone or answering the front door and all of a sudden screaming like Maria on a pine cone at dinner (if you don't get that reference, SHAME ON YOU!). There is only so many times you can blame sudden outbursts on rheumatism, ya know?

Since finding out that there is such a thing as a rectal thermometer, Tricky has narrowed down his career aspirations. The cast of usual suspects; police officer, fireman, and even map maker (it's in the genes) no longer get a mention. He wants to be a doctor. Not just any doctor though, a proudly, and often loudly proclaimed, "bum doctor".

Do you know how many people lead a conversation with a preschooler with what they want to be when they grow up? ALL OF THEM! Do you know how many people look startled and then highly amused while I blush a lovely shade of red? ALL OF THEM!

"A bum doctor? Really?"

"Yep, I'll look at bums all day! Your bum, Dad's bum, Pop's bum..."

So, Doctor Tricky. Proctologist. Excellent.

What do/did you/your kids want to be when they grew up?

When did I become the least qualified person to treat my kid?

It's been a while since the Cranky Pants have been worn around here. Actually that's not true, I wear them around the house constantly, it's just I don't share it all that often.

But the other night something so infuriating happened that I've been walking around with the proverbial steam coming out of my ears since. Unable to let it go. What, me? Hold a grudge? Never!

If you've been playing along at home you'd know that The Trickster is asthmatic. He doesn't get it very often, but when he does, it's quite bad. Last year he had one ambulance ride and three hospitalizations in four weeks which was a lovely baptism of fire in to what it's like to be an asthma parent.

A fortnight ago we had another ambulance ride because he went downhill insanely fast. I'm talking making it to two hours between Ventolins and then all of a sudden needing another dose after only ten minutes. That's when they send out the quick response ambulance car because it can get there four minutes faster. It's also where you absolutely should be wearing brown underwear.

On Sunday morning Tricky started showing the first signs of a cold followed really quickly by asthma. Here we go again. We're getting quite used to it all so we followed our 'Action Plan' to the letter. By early afternoon he was already struggling and requiring six puffs of Ventolin every three hours so to try and prevent a late night trip to the emergency room we called the GP locum service.

The GP got there after 7pm and examined Tricks (who had just had more Ventolin 15 minutes prior). Despite being told his history of ambulance rides, despite the raging temperature, despite the face streaming with snot and despite the fact that he was now on two hourly Ventolins he was declared "not sick enough" for Prednisone.

(If you've never had anything to do with asthma, Prednisone is a steroid and Tricky responds really well to it. He'll go from needing to be on oxygen and in hospital to discharge within 24 hours of his first dose.)

Gee thanks Dr Fuckwit. All I was asking for was a script for a readily available drug. I wasn't asking for morphine, I wasn't even asking for you to supply the drugs, merely scribble on a piece of paper with your atrocious writing so that I could then go and get some, give it to my kid and avoid the stress of another night wondering if it was time to call the ambulance yet. You know, it's YOUR JOB as a locum to get us to avoid the hospital... so WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!

I might not have a fancy framed degree hanging on the wall, but I know my own kid and I know his asthma. Hell, I've had it for 30 years so I've got a bit of experience with it, too. I know how he responds and I know what makes him better. But what would I know? I'm only the mother *grumble grumble*.

I am so tired of being treated like a moron just because I don't have a medical degree. You?

Slipping Through The Cracks

Yesterday was one of those days. You know the ones. Everything goes wrong.

By 10am I'd already broken a mug, stepped on Lego and lost the remote control amongst a sea of toys.

By 12pm I'd missed an important phone call, slipped in the shower, burned Tricky's lunch, thrown it out and burned the second lot too.

At 2pm we headed to the doctors for Tricky's one year immunizations.

Why do doctors surgeries insist on packing patients in to ten minute slots then spending half an hour with each person? Keeping a toddler amused for an hour in a place with no toys and three torn books is a particularly sadistic form of torture.

So we finally get in there to see the amazing doctor, Dr B, who first picked up Tricky's sagittal craniosynostosis. It was like a little reunion of sorts with lots of head feeling and progress updates. All good.

I decided to get the whooping cough booster for myself so the doctor flicked over to my file on the computer and a big alert popped up on the screen.

"Abnormal Pap Test Result 2009"

My breathe caught in my throat and my heart started racing. Or maybe it stopped, I'm not sure.

2009? TWO YEARS AGO? How come I'm only being told now?

The doctor searched through the entries on the computer, showing them all to me. And there it was. Abnormal result.

In early 2009 I was seeing one doctor, Dr H, weekly for allergy desensitization injections. Under one of those visits he has typed "discussed abnormal pap result".

Ahh, no. That was never discussed. I'm pretty bloody sure I would have remembered someone saying that. I mean, wouldn't you?

I've also been back since then for two pregnancies - one of which resulted in Tricky, a flu shot, to get my stitches checked after Tricks was born and when I had gastro. NOTHING was ever mentioned. Not once.

So here I am, a mere three months away from getting that lovely letter that says it's time for a Pap smear, to be told the last one, TWO WHOLE FUCKING YEARS AGO, was abnormal.

How does that happen? How can these things slip through the cracks?

I'm not panicking, well, not properly. I'm pretty sure I had an extra Pap Test when I had my first Obstetrician appointment and I'm going to assume that since I saw him so often during my pregnancy that he would have mentioned something. He would have... wouldn't he?

But there is that corner of my mind that is whispering dark thoughts to me when it's quiet. It's the same part that jumps to conclusions; the same part that thinks maybe the OB assumed I'd already been told; the same part that thinks I'm a shit magnet when it comes to incompetent doctors.