Hemorrhoids. Horrible word. Not talked about. Embarrassing subject. Who me? Happens to someone else. Pretend it’s anything but that for as long as you can. Any of those sound familiar?
Well, they do to me. Although I’ve since learned that the majority of people develop hemorrhoids at some point in their lives, I managed to make it to 65 before it invaded my every waking hour. It all started about five months ago when I ended up in the hospital overnight with what turned out to be GERD. That’s another Who Knew? moment for me. That I could end up in the ER and subsequently overnight in the hospital because GERD mimics heart attack, was quite a surprise. It took another few weeks of tests to discover that I have no heart problems and a trial (suggested by the heart doctor) of using Mylanta to discover that it did indeed stop the burping and tummy rumbling.
Fast forward to five months later. I’ve now been on a blood pressure pill and a GERD prescription and now I have extra issues: not only has the burping not gone away (although it seems better), but now I have this horrible pressure at the other end that makes me uncomfortable all day, every day. Of course, working in hospice, we have a tendency to “awfulize.” Every day we have a family member comment about how healthy and happy their loved one was just the week before and now they’re dying in hospice. Because of this, we have this tendency to advance our symptoms into terrible things. Have a headache? Glioblastoma. A tickly cough? Must be throat cancer. Back pain? Surely it’s kidney cancer. And so on and so on.
That brings us back to pressure all day every day in an area that most people don’t want to casually discuss with anyone else. Must be colon cancer. I made an appointment with a gastroenterologist, had an endoscopy and colonoscopy and was relieved to find out I have acute gastritis (a diagnosis I don’t mind discussing with fellow workers) and hemorrhoids (a diagnosis I do mind discussing with fellow workers).
Why is it that gastritis can be kept under control with a swallowed medication but hemorrhoids require suppositories? Can’t they come up with something a little more palatable? Truthfully, I hate the remedy almost as much as the problem. In any case, it has taken the suppositories almost a week for me to notice much of a difference so I put my herbal skills to work and created a salve that worked instantaneously and has continued all day. I infused Evening Primrose, Avocado, Safflower and Olive oils with Witch Hazel Bark, Yarrow leaves, Plaintain, Chamomile, Calendula and St. John’s Wort and then added beeswax to get that salve consistency. I applied it topically this morning and it’s still working almost half a day later. You can bet I’ll be adding this product to my web site, Scentsibility. Maybe there are tons of other “closet” hemorrhoidians out there who could benefit.
Hopefully, this will not be a retirement issue but just a diet and lifestyle issue that I can manage. However, I’m not pleased to have made it all the way to 65 and then get slapped with this indignity!
I often hear people ask those of us who aren’t married and have no children, “Who’ll take care of you when you get older?” Interesting question. Yes, it has crossed my mind many times and I used to believe that my brother and/or my friends would take care of me. I ‘ve never been uncomfortable on my own and living by myself is something I treasure. I never have to argue over what television show to watch, clean up after someone else or let him know what time I’ll be home. If I want to waltz around the house naked, there’s no one to point out my flabby parts or use that as the right time to suggest a healthier diet. So it’s not loneliness that concerns me – well not now anyway. I might one day eat those words but right now, I don’t see that as the issue.
But what if I live to a ripe old age, and most of my friends and my brother are gone? I must admit, it is a concern. On the other hand, working in hospice, I see how abysmally family members can treat each other and fight over money and possessions. The patient is more often than not the one who bears the brunt of the disrespect and, sometimes, outright neglect. So, if I were married and had a bunch of children, could I necessarily count on any of them to do the right thing by me? I think not. Many times the children dislike each other and fight over who’s right concerning the patient’s care. The thing is – it’s usually the patient who suffers because the kids aren’t making a decision on what’s best for the patient; they’re deciding based on their own comfort levels. I guess I’m glad I won’t have a child who’s so determined to keep me here that he/she makes hospice staff withhold medications that would make me comfortable so I can be what they would call “alert” even though I’m thrashing around in the bed.
My biggest concern is the in-between stage – the stage where I’m no longer able to live on my own, require constant care but am not hospice appropriate. I hear horrible stories about the care the elderly get in many of the nursing homes. And I can see it clearly. Nursing homes, like most other businesses, have a plethora of employees who are primarily interested in the paycheck and not the job. Many of them have little or no empathy for the elderly people and how could they? They have zero understanding of living with legs that no longer hold them up, or having to take a ton of medications that take care of one thing but bring all kinds of side effects that may make the elderly person seem “slow, ” when, in fact, the brain works just fine. Those are the circumstances that concern me. I’m not sure the outcome of being in that environment has anything to do with whether or not I have children – and children who truly care about my best interests to boot.
So the fact that I don’t have a husband or children doesn’t bother me about growing older and ending up in a nursing home. What concerns me is ending up in a home where the culture is one of “just wheel them into a corner and let them sit all day.” And I’ve seen it. We had a case of a patient who was brought into the hospice to find placement in a different home because the one where he had been living had wheeled him outside ostensibly to “get some sun and fresh air” and left him in the Las Vegas summer sun for the better part of a couple of hours. I worry that I’ll need to go to the bathroom and someone will be irritated that I ring for help too often. I worry that I’ll reach a point where I have to defecate in a diaper and no one will come to change me for hours and hours. I worry that I’ll end up with Stage IV decubitus ulcers because it’s too much trouble to constantly turn me. I worry that I’ll be hungry but someone forgot to take me down to the lunch room to eat. I worry that I’ll be physically broken but mentally alert and people will come in and talk to me like I’m a two-year-old.
Bottom line: it’s the people in the facilities who will be tasked with my day-to-day comfort that worry me.