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Picture this; Christmas Day and I'm with my family in my house. We've had a lovely day, we had a lovely meal at lunch time and we're all warm and cosy watching a film. The only day of the year we all stay together in the same room - my daughters (20) and son (22) my partner and myself. A few too many sherries for the others, but only a small glass of Bucks Fizz for me as I don't really drink. The fairy lights are all twinkling a warm white, the tree decorated tastefully by my arty daughters this year with gold and red trim. I may even take a sneaky forty winks...
My phone rings and I jump out of my fuzzy haze and see it's my brother who lives about 7 miles away. I'd spoken to him about 3 hours before to wish him and my dad, (they live together), a Merry Christmas and to see how they both were. They had been out for Christmas Dinner - They had walked the half mile or so to Church and had been taken to dinner and returned home afterwards. My brother Ant, said dad had eaten a quite hearty lunch and had gone to bed for a nap - that was normal as dad is 95 with terminal cancer and he needs a lot of sleep.
However, at about 7.30, Ant had heard a huge bang from upstairs and gone up to find dad had fallen on the bathroom floor and was bleeding heavily from his elbow and his hand which he had evidently knocked when he fell; 95 year old skin is thin and easily broken. Ant picked dad up and helped him back to bed but had noticed dad was now having difficulty breathing. He rang me.
'Hello,' said Ant, who has Autism. 'There's nothing to worry about but...' My ears pricked up. Ant's autism makes it difficult for him to realise when a situation is serious and difficult to prioritise things. 'but I may need a bit of help with dad's breathing as it's a bit noisy and he seems to be struggling a bit...'
I flew off the sofa and upstairs to get dressed as I'd been in my new Grinch onesie (don't ask). I must have made it upstairs in 10 seconds, dressed and back down in under a minute, onesie flung on the floor (and I hate clothes on the floor). Both my daughters had guessed what was happening and wanted to come with me to help. Thank heavens for daughters. My son and bloke were in a semi-sozzled state still on the sofa. Watching us all in a state of dazed amazement.
I was in the car and heading over the mountain only minutes later for the 7 mile trip. I dialled Ant on hands-free to get more info. Dad was 'breathing funny, and making a strange noise and struggling to breathe', he said. He wasn't sure what to do, it was probably nothing to worry about. I asked if he had phoned the ambulance. Ant hadn't. I said if he thought it was serious he should call them. Then I changed my mind - I'd be quicker calling them myself.
I rang 999. I relayed the details I had, and explained as best I could, but they were asking things I didn't know like was he awake and conscious, was his colour normal, what did his breathing sound like? He said there was currently about a 2 hour wait for an ambulance. Shit! In the end the operator said he would call Ant himself and I concentrated on just getting there. He said to call back if things got worse.
I made in in 13 minutes - being Christmas Day there was very little traffic on the road, although I probably hit every damn 20mph speed camera on the way. I ran inside and up to the bedroom where dad was RATTLING. Seriously! Struggling to breathe was putting it mildly it was like a loud rattle in and out. Dad was grey and clearly in enormous distress. He saw me and tried to sit up. I tried to gently hold him where he was - realising it was important for him to conserve energy. He was trying to say something but his words made no sense. I rang 999 again. They said to hold the phone to his mouth so they could hear him. I did so, and the emergency response vehicle turned up just minutes later, shortly followed by an ambulance, blue lights flashing, the display winning hands down over the neighbourhood Christmas lights.
The paramedic was up the stairs seconds later and had him attached to oxygen and a meter thing and all sorts of bleeping machines, while all I could do was apologise (no, I KNOW I'm not to blame but I felt the urge to say something by way of acknowledgement). 'Sorry about the mess'. I said over and over. 'I'm SO sorry about the mess. All I could do was apologise and stand there helplessly while convinced the paramedics were judging me (I know they weren't).
I had said on the 999 call, more than once that it was 'a HOARDED house.' I'd spoken that damn H word extra clearly and extra slowly, because I knew the response - I've had that conversation SO many times. It goes like this...
Me; 'It's a HOARDED house.'
Them; 'HAUNTED?'
Me: 'No - HOARDED!'
Them : 'Oh - I thought you said Haunted - ha ha ha.'
I don't laugh. It's NOT funny, not in any way whatsoever, not at all. It's embarrassing, it's dirty, it's disgusting, it's vile and it makes me sick. Trust me when I say haunted would be 100% preferable to the dirty secret of the house I grew up in. It stinks, you can't move in it. My nightmares lie in this house not in a haunted house.
Often the conversation ends there - whether because the person I'm talking to is disinterested, doesn't care, has no experience of hoarding, is bored already or think their mis-hearing is so hilarious that that's the end of the matter. Or maybe my reaction, not being hilarious laughter is not what they expected. More often than not, the conversation is ignored or changed.
However, for me, the nightmare continues.
The paramedic wanted dad to sit up so she could attach the monitors and give oxygen. He wasn't making much sense, he wanted water which he couldn't have lying down, he had no straw. I sat him up and sat next to him letting him lean on me. He wanted to lie down but the paramedic said no. There was blood everywhere which was coming from an open wound on the back of his hand and another on his elbow. He appeared to settle once the oxygen mask went on but wanted to lie down. I couldn't understand what he was saying as he appeared confused and he couldn't hear me. We couldn't find his hearing aid. I held him up. The other two Paramedics came in and I saw them looking around. They asked if he had any paperwork from City Hospice - He couldn't find it. Did he have pyjamas? We couldn't find them. Each time they had to ask for something I had no idea where it was and I couldn't even look for it because there were paramedics in the way - the amount of stuff in the house meant only one person could be in a space at a time and to be able to get out of a room, everyone else had to get out first.
Finally they said they would need to get him to the hospital so they'd have to 'somehow' get him down the stairs. We moved what we could, myself, Ant and my daughters. We moved mountains of stuff in order to create a space big enough to get the chair through. Most of the stuff had to go in the garden - there was nowhere else to put it. Boxes and boxes of stuff.
Finally there was space but not enough to get him downstairs. They got him to WALK downstairs - it was the ONLY option with the time and space given. Aided by a paramedic in front and behind for safety. They managed to get him in the chair at the bottom of the stairs and then out the back door through the hall and the kitchen and out the back door, through the garden and into the Ambulance. I drove to the hospital and he was blue lighted in after they'd stabilised him.
The paramedic apologised but said he'd have to refer this to social services, not specifically saying why but pretty obvious I'd say. I told him to please go ahead and refer.
When he got there they did a scan and it turns out he'd broken 3 ribs in the fall - then had no choice but to walk down his stairs with the paramedics. He also has a chest infection so will be there 'a few days'.
He is apparently a little more comfortable today and the oxygen they are giving him isn't as much as yesterday. He's on antibiotics and has slept most of the day.
😟
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