Carrie, Defender of the Old

I've been really preoccupied lately with this notion that this nation needs some sort of Elder Advocacy program. Kind of like CASA, only for old people. They could be their advocate for lots of things...like dealing with the cable company (this makes our residents crazy) or helping them get out of jury duty, but most importantly, they could advocate their healthcare.

Just this week we've had two residents go to the hospital with some type of chemical restraint used because of "behaviors exhibited" by the resident. In one case, the resident had a UTI (this makes old people act crazy), had fallen, and was given MORPHINE for the fall-related pain.  She threw her breakfast tray at the nurse.  Um, who wouldn't act crazy if they are 94 years old, on strong antibiotics, in as strange place and on freaking morphine???  Instead of considering any of that, the nurse called the doctor and got an order for a psychotropic med for "behaviors."  All without the resident's permission...because they deemed her unable to think rationally.  I'm pissed just writing about it.

Second example.  Another resident is also in the hospital because of a fall. She has dementia. She is in unfamiliar surroundings and she was frightened.  She kept pushing her call light. (apparently a lot...but who cares??)  The nurse called the doctor and got an order for Xanax for her nervousness.  When her daughter visited, the resident's eyes were glassed over and she was DROOLING!  No one had even notified (or ASKED) the daughter, who is the medical POA about the Xanax! Incredible!!!

Since there is no Elder Advocacy Program (yet), I made one up. Today, I advocated. I did not make any friends at the hospital, and I'll probably never get another referral from them.  But my old people are safe, warm, loved, and off unnecessary mind-altering drugs.

The End.

My Knee My Knee My Knee

As I've said before (and will again!) I really love my job. Love it. Today, however, I had a wicked strange realization. I do not love it more than I love to run. How the hell did that happen? When did this happen!? I am the anti-runner! The hacker! The why-run-when-you-can walk questions asker! The person who runs just so she can justify buying new shoes every few months! I just can't believe it. When did I morph into a real runner???

My knee started hurting on what should have been a six mile run this morning. I made it three. And I'm not a weenie-girl, quite the contrary. I ran longer than I should have considering the significance of the knee pain. And now, today, at this job I so love I could only halfway pay attention to the resident who told me she needed to go to the bank so she could wire money to Costa Rica**. I didn't even get excited when a confused resident accused me of putting laxatives in her food because she had an embarrasing accident. And when I overheard Snarky Resident say she couldn't believe how fat another resident was, I didn't even snicker. And this is all because I can't stop thinking about why my knee hurts! Do I need new shoes? (no) Did I run the hills too hard last night? (hell no) Will I be able to run my 15-miler this weekend? Will I be able to run next week? Will this affect the marathon training schedule that Husband/Coach, Partner, and I labored hours over, revised, and revised some more? Will I be able to run the marathon? WILL I EVER RUN AGAIN?

I'm slightly preoccupied today, no?

*It pisses me off beyond belief that cruel, mean, horrible ogres actually try and do this kind of thing to old people. I would have no qualms what-so-evah about getting into my Jeep and running down some asshole if I knew they had done this to one of my residents. And then I'd back up. And drive forward. And back up again.