Long story short: I’m pissed because I got a painful pressure sore on my sweet ass from sitting on a new commode. They were dismissive when I told them I was uncomfortable. Then I found out they’d taken steps to prevent this from happening to another resident. Grrrrr.
I knew something was up last night when I got that prickly pain on the right cheek, near my tailbone. I called the night charge attendant, who used a pillow to prop me up on my left side. I was a little more comfortable but my sleep was broken anyways by the awkward position. It had to be caused by the new commode because it was the only thing that had changed.
The story really began a week earlier when the “bath team” started using a new commode chair. The team consists of two women who are responsible for bathing or showering every resident in the building who can’t manage to do it on their own. Who knew showering is a team event? They put me on their commode, strip me naked, wrap a flannel sheet around me, and then take me to the “shower room” on the third floor. Showers can’t happen in the privacy of my own bathroom because there isn’t enough space for three of us and it would be dangerous. (Besides, I use my bathtub to store my rickety old manual wheelchair and other spare parts. Doesn’t everyone do this?)
The worst part is sharing the elevator during the trip from my apartment to the shower room, when I feel incredibly vulnerable. The only thing protecting me in my birthday suit from a public viewing is a thin sheet. But, it’s not so bad once you get used to it, and it’s somewhat comforting to know that you’re not the only resident who does this.
Anyways, a week ago when they told me I would be the first resident to use the new commode, I cracked a joke about being their guinea pig. I should have known better. As soon as they put me on it this morning the pain came back right away. We talked about it while we waited for the elevator.
Me: “All I know is, the spot was red but closed this morning when I got dressed. It’s been hurting ever since I sat on this thing.”
Team member #1: “I don’t see how it can affect anything because it’s not even touching that part of your body.”
Me again: “Maybe, but the new seat is still going to change the way I sit on it.”
I almost felt triumphant when they got me dressed after my shower and discovered the spot had opened up.
See? I wanted to say. I was right, wasn’t I? But I said nothing.
Team member #2: “I guess we should have done what we did with resident XYZ.”
Indeed. Vindicated and sore. They suddenly became very attentive after they summoned the nurse to apply the dressing. It’ll take a couple of weeks at least for the sore to close and heal, but at least the pain went away after it was covered. I got “lucky” this time.
Here’s why pressure sores are no laughing matter. They used to call them bedsores because they happen to people who are bedridden. That’s not accurate. Pressure sores can happen anywhere on the body, but often on bony areas like elbows, knees, hips, heels and tail bones. They occur whenever pressure is applied to the skin for a long time that restricts blood flow to the area. The people most at risk have underlying conditions like MS that limit their ability to move and change position, or interfere with blood flow like diabetes. They can be incredibly painful when the person still has sensory perception, or very insidious when they don’t. At worst, they can lead to infection and sepsis, or even amputation. Dr. Google has lots more information if you’re still curious.
I get one occasionally, always in the same place. Even though it’s only tiny, it hurts like hell. Ironically, it’s a good thing that I can still feel the pain because I can take action to prevent it getting worse. An LPN applies a leave-on dressing over the spot that can stay there for several weeks if necessary. We cover it up to give my skin a fighting chance to repair itself. For some reason it doesn’t bother me when I sit in my chair, for which I’m profoundly grateful. I spend most of my day there. The sore hurts when I’m lying down. No rest for the weary, I guess, or the wicked.