What to tell your loved one in the ICU.

I stood at the nurses station, swaying at bit, from the unsteadiness that started in the ICU, and watched a nurse write my request in a big blue binder. “What is that”, I asked.

“It’s your binder.”

“What’s in it?”, I asked.

He used the fingers of his right hand to ruffle the pages of the binder, “It’s the history of your stay here. Everything that happened to you, is written in here.”

“Can I read it?”, I asked.

“You don’t want to read this.”, he replied, which is a strange response since I just asked if I could read it.

“No I want to read it”, I said.

He continued trying to talk me out of reading it, but I knew the law and said “It’s my file, and the law says I can read anything that’s about me.”

“You’ll have to fill out a form to get a copy.”

“Give me the form.”

“I’ll get it to you later”.

I wobbled back to my room, still feeling extremely unsteady, as if I might fall over at any minute.

He never did bring me a form. Everyday I went to the nurses station and asked for a form, and everyday I was given a delay tactic.

When I got home from the hospital, I complained to one of my doctors about not being able to read my file, and he told me what website to go to get a form. I filled out the form, paid the money, and got the file.

I wanted that file, because I did not know what happened to me. I had a vague idea, but not enough to satisfy my questions that nobody was answering.

My family would probably have answered the questions by that point, but our area of the world had a cold front at that time, preventing most cars from starting and many roads to be closed.

What should be told to an ICU patient and when? That was a question asked by Dr. Megan Hosey that said “Family members of ICU patients commonly ask me “What should I tell them about the ICU and when?”, before following up with a tweet that asked ICU survivors what they thought. (I would link the tweets here, but I don’t know how.)

Thank you Dr. Hosey for the idea and allowing me to respond to your question in a blog post.


I had no idea what happened? I had no memory of the days before I entered the ICU and my memories of being in the ICU were delirium filled.

Before I woke from sedation I knew on some level that I was in the hospital, but I didn’t know why. At some point my brother told me I had started smoking and it was my fault I was in the ICU. That wasn’t true. I’ve never smoked in my life.


While your loved one is under sedation talk to them and tell them:

1.) Where they are

2.) Why they are there

3.) Why they can’t move (bed restraints, sedation, ect.) Why they are in bed restraints and or under sedation. Don’t let them think it’s because they are a bad person, somebody is trying to kill them or anything else like that.

4.) That they might have delirium what they see might not be real. (I saw all sorts of things, that you can read about in the blog – both written now and written in the future).

5.) Who is visiting

6.) That you love them.


When they wake up from sedation:

7.) Repeat the information above, because it might not be remembered from one day to the next. I seemed to have lost my object permanence when I was in the ICU and for months afterwards. If something wasn’t right in front of me I simply didn’t think about it. I brushed my teeth, if I saw my toothbrush in the morning. I had to keep my pills on the table where I sat or I’d forget to take them all day. I ate only when I was hungry, because it was hunger that reminded me I needed to eat. Because things are so easily forgotten when a person is extremely sick, things will need to be repeated.

8.) The time and date.

Time does a strange little thing in the ICU. It’s hard to understand, but it bends and becomes non-existent. At one time my brother was there, only he was a child, and his son was standing beside him, the same age as he was. Without clocks or calendars time becomes even more confusing that it already is. Many ICUs don’t have windows and the lights are on all day and all night long, making any way tracking time difficult. Help your loved one to orientate to time, by telling them the time and date.

9.) Answer any questions about why they are there.


After the ICU but in the ward.

This is where I wanted more information, and started asking for my file. I still had a bit of delirium but I knew that the clock wasn’t really sliding off the wall. It was just because I was seeing things.

10.) Tell the person what happened.

11.) Answer all the questions asked.

12.) Tell them about delirium, and that what they are seeing and hearing might not be real. They don’t need to be afraid of it either.

On my first night in the ward, I called a nurse in and asked “Are there fire works on the ceiling, or am I developing schizophrenia”.

She asked “Why do you think you have schizophrenia?”

“Well because I’m seeing fireworks on the ceiling, and I don’t think medicare pays for such fancy light shows in the hospital. That would be a waste of healthcare funding.”

“No,” she said, “the health region does not pay for light shows in the hospital, but you don’t have schizophrenia either. You have been through a very traumatic event and the brains way of dealing with that is to see and hear things that aren’t there.”


“Do you want me to get some medicine to make it go away.”

Still watching the light show I said “no, I’ll just enjoy my own private fireworks shows. As long as I’m not getting something else wrong with me. I didn’t want to deal with getting schizophrenia that’s all.”’

The patient across the hall laughed, and the nurse smiled before saying “ok, enjoy the show”, and I did, that is until the not so nice stuff started happening.

Once I knew that I was seeing things, and was not developing a mental illness, the delirium was easier to deal with.

I do wish the nurse had called it delirium. It wasn’t until I got home and read tweets on twitter, that I realized it was delirium.


After they are home:

I am guilty of this as well. Before I got sick, my mother was in the hospital for 100 days because of a major brain illness. She remembered nothing about what happened when she was sick. When she got home from the hospital she asked questions about her illness almost everyday. Many times it was the same questions.

Although I answered her questions and talked about it when she wanted to talk, I was frustrated, and I don’t think I did as well as I could have.

When I got home from the hospital, I understood and felt a tremendous amount of guilt for not being as patient as I should have.

Thankfully she was more patient than I was, and answered my questions again and again.

It’s hard not knowing what happened, why it happened, but also having this false delirium induced memory of what happened.

13.) Allow the person to discuss that delirium. It may not have happened to you, but it happened to your loved on, and it was scary, and horrifying. It’s a trauma in an of itself, and it can cause PTSD. I was diagnosed with PTSD from my ICU experience. Sometimes calling it delirium seems like a lie and a threat to me, because to me it really happened, and to me it still hurts a lot.

14.) Help your loved one get their own file if they want it, and allow them to read it at their own pace.

15.) Show them pictures if you took any.

My mother took pictures, and I copied them onto my phone. I still look at the often. At first I looked at them almost everyday.

16.) Tell your loved ones, months and years later, that it’s ok to still think about it, wonder about it and ask questions about it. Don’t expect your loved one to be over it. To them it is not in the past. It happened. I think about it everyday and if I allow myself, I feel the pain of it everyday. Things have moved on with my family, and I feel the need to move on with them, but it’s not something I’ve gotten over. I still want to talk about it, write about it and deal with it, but I also feel selfish for wanting to.

Thank you for reading this. If you want to know more, you can read more of this blog, or follow me on twitter for updates. If want to be mentioned in my blog twitter updates, let me know.

Please like this blog post or tweet the tweet it was mentioned in, and share this blog with others? You’re sharing it and liking it, encourages me to keep writing and makes me heart smile.

Three years ago today, I became an ICU patient.

This is a hard day for me.

3 years ago this morning in the wee hours of the morning, I threw up until I couldn’t walk anymore. My mother held my waist length hair back to prevent it from getting in the toilet.

I don’t remember any of this. I don’t remember not being able to walk back to bed without help, or going back to sleep.

I do remember waking up and realizing my tongue was huge, and telling my mother to phone my doctor.

I remember my clothes being cut off, the nightmare that is sedation, and waking up from sedation.

I don’t remember getting sepsis and pneumonia and crashing on Christmas day.

I don’t remember waking up the second time (or was it the first time).

I know I almost died, twice.

And I know that that will be with me forever.

It’s not like the movies.

I didn’t not get to a happy ending or to ride off into the sunset with music that let everyone know I would be just fine.

Instead I could barely walk out of the hospital, and when I got into the car it was cold, dark and gloomy.

I could barely speak above a whisper for months, and my throat felt so raw from a tube being pushed down it with enough force to reach my lungs, twice. (once when I got to the hospital and once when I crashed).

There no happy ending or happily ever after. It’s a fairy tale lie.

There’s been reflection on why I am alive, and really the answers been “I don’t know.”. Why did I live when so many other’s died?

I’d like to believe that I have some future that I have to fulfil, but I’m not sure of that. Maybe? Hopefully?

I’d like there to be a happy ending, where I say “everyday is a gift”, but that’s not true. It hasn’t made me appreciate live any more, made me happy every day, or given me a “new lease on life”. It’s the same old life.

It’s just as hard, if not harder because in the years since, covid has come and has not gone, my father was diagnosed as palliative, I became one of his main caregivers, the house has gotten messier, I spend most days in my pajamas just trying to survive, and somedays I don’t eat all day, followed by days I do eat all day.

There’s no good end to this. Either I completely wear out from caregiving or my father dies. It’s not going to end well.

Having almost died, does not make this any easier. It doesn’t make me more thankful to be alive. Why would it?

Live is hard, and it’s not just hard for me. It’s hard for many people, especially right now with covid, the cancellation of Christmas gatherings, and people intent on making it harder on everyone by protesting new mask laws.

You would think, that reflecting on almost dying, would be a happy and upbeat reflection. It’s not. I’m sorry if that’s what you came for, but I won’t lie to you.

Being as sick as one can be without dying is not fun, and it’s not joyful afterwards either. It doesn’t give you a new lease on life. It doesn’t make life better than before. You just go back to the same old life you had before with the same old problems you had before.

I planned on doing what I could for making life easier for people who were in the ICU as soon as I woke up from sedation. Later as I read the tweets of ICU staff I wanted to make things better for staff too.

I wanted to write my storey, and I had plans for making a support group for former and present ICU patients and their families.

I didn’t do either. I tried to, but as Dad got sicker and my caregiving roles increased, and life took over, I slowly stopped keeping this blog up or making inquiries into support groups at the hospital. I felt guilty for focusing on my problems as Dad got sicker and sicker.

I admire those people like John Walsh who set up America’s Most Wanted after his son was beheaded by a serial killer, but I don’t know how he did it without being side tracked by other things.

I don’t know. I wish I did.

I did not have covid. I had an allergic reaction to a newly prescribed medication.


You do not want to be that sick. You do not want to get covid. You do not want to crash on any day. You do not want to be intubated. You do not want to be extubated. You do not want the PTSD that comes after hospital discharge.

There is no happy ending. Life goes on. More family tragedies happen.

Everyday does not become a gift. Instead every day becomes hard. It gets hard to wake up, hard to keep going, and hard to do basic things like eating, brushing teeth or doing hair. PTSD (which many people get from being in the ICU), follows you around making life harder. There is no “new lease on live”. That is Hollywood fiction.

If you don’t want your life to get even harder than it is right now. If you want brushing your teeth to be a simple daily task and not a chore you put off for days, than do all you can from preventing you and your loved ones from getting covid.

Wear a mask. Social Distance. Wash you hands. Stay at home as often as you can.

It’s hard. I know. I would love to go to a hotel and just be by myself and relax in a Jacuzzi all day, like I’ve done before. I need alone time to just be and think, but it’s hard to get now.

I need new clothes, because three of my jeans have ripped now. I want to get my bangs cut.

But I’m doing all of that, because I know it is infinitely worse to be in the ICU, under sedation, not knowing if you are alive, dead or in purgatory, without any indication of time, and unable to move because you are tied to the bed.

I can’t imagine what it is like without visitors.

If you don’t want what happened to me, to happen to you, take covid seriously, and take all precautions.

I wish there was a happy ending. I wish I did “have a new lease on live”. I wish everyday was a gift.

But that’s just not the way it works in real live. It really isn’t.

I yell profanities at my organs.

I was born with internal differences to my organs.

One of my organs is a complete brat, who stands up and yells “Pay attention to me. ME ME ME! I need to be the CENTER of attention. It’s all about ME. Only ME!”, whenever any other part of my body is sick and needs attention.

And I end up yelling “Fuck You (name of organ)”, to my organ. Sometimes it’s an entire paragraph, of “Fuck You. You are not the centre of attention. It’s not all about you. Do not bother me.”

But of course it is… partly.

That particular organ has gotten a lot of attention, and is by now it completely used to demanding my life revolve around it… maybe I should be too.

I’m not. I’m angry with my body. I can not and will not embrace my body, and not because of it’s looks, weight or any other superficial reason.

I will not become “at one with my body”, or any of those other hokey euphemisms healthy people tout without knowledge.

I will not accept my body is me, because I’m not broken.

I may be flawed, I may have grumpy days and days that all I want to do is cry. Everybody does.

But I am not as broken as my body.

I have always known that my body and me are separate. Even as a child. That’s why I can yell “Fuck you”, to my different organs, without saying “Fuck you”, to myself.


I wish all health professionals knew what it was like to be sick, to have an organ or body part that doesn’t obey, to know that the body and mind are not one, and to know what it’s like to just get up in the morning and ignore aches, pains and illnesses until it can no longer be ignored.

I wish they understood that dilemma when asked a piece of medical history. Should I mention it? Is it related? It’s really to do with this other problem I’ve already been diagnosed with? Will it just muddy the water?

If I mentioned everything in my medical history, you and I would be in that examining room way too long. Try all afternoon.

And then there are the times I just simply forget to mention things because I’m so busy ignoring them that I’m still ignoring them in the examining room.

One specialist doctor asked so many rapid fire questions, I didn’t have time to think about any of the answers. After 10 or more questions quickly fired in my direction, she told me there was nothing wrong with me, and not to waste her time.

She asked so quickly, I got anxious and answered all the questions wrong. I asked for a second opinion but the second specialist, looked at the notes of the first doctor and said “I talked to Dr. So and So. These are her notes, and I agree with her, but here’s some medication you can take.”, handed me a prescription and got up to leave the room. I followed because I had no other choice.

I still wonder if both doctors are wrong, but with her notes, whatever they say, every specialist in her field in my city, who all work out of the same hospital, are going to agree with her. Asking for a third opinion is a waste of everybody’s time, and the systems money.

My family doctor agrees. He thinks I do have the problem he originally sent me for, and is trying to manage the problem without the direction of a specialist, but why should he have to? Why should one doctor’s complete ignorance about what it’s like to answer those questions when you have been sick all your life and have multiple diagnosis’s, get in the way of my health? Why should she have so much power?

Maybe if she understood how difficult it is to answer questions delivered so quickly when you’re asking yourself so many questions about how to answer them, she would give her patients time to think before she asks another question?

I really do wish that all medical professionals were given a drug with a half life of 2 weeks (or even a month), that made them chronically sick for that time period. I want them to wake up in pain, and consciously think about getting out of bed, before they do it.

I want them to have a handful of pills they have to take multiple times a day, and figure out how hard it is to remember each and every dosage, each and every day.

I want them to know what it’s like to be hungry, know you have to eat because not eating will make you sicker, but not have the energy to cook something. Finally you just pick something from a box, put it in the oven and forget about it until it’s ready, but it causes guilt because you know you need to eat better, and unhealthy food might make things worse, but it’s better than eating nothing, because if I eat nothing I can’t take my pills and then…. And the thoughts go in circles of guilt.

I want them to know what it’s like to be too tired to exercise, but feel guilty that you aren’t exercising because you know you should, and then have to explain that to somebody who judges when they “how much exercise do you get”, at your next doctor’s appointment.

I want them to understand how much guilt there is in being sick.

I want them to know they don’t have to add more guilt, and that adding guilt doesn’t help me to be more “compliant”, to only makes it harder.

I want them to know how chronically sick people can be caregivers of even sicker people in the family, put themselves last, and feel guilty about paying attention to their own health problems (even mentioning them), because somebody else is sicker.

I want them to know what it is like to calculate in your head, how much energy it takes to go to the bathroom, and then figure out if it will take more or less energy to return to the place you are when you’re done or just go to bed.

I want them to know, that they don’t see patients at their sickest (unless they are in the ICU), because patients who are really sick, don’t have the energy or health it takes to get dressed, get in the car, drive to the doctor, find a parking space, walk to the office, and see the doctor. Instead they wait until they are feeling healthier to either go to the doctor or just forget about it and get one with life. Or they get so sick they can’t stand it and get somebody to drive them to the emergency room.

I want medical professionals to take a drug, be this sick for a month, and truly understand what it is like to be chronically sick.


Until you know what it’s like to yell one of your organs with frustration, anger and desperation, and understand what it’s like to be sick (from experience) don’t judge me.

My ICU Experience Chapter 6:

The Chapters form is back, well at least for now. I’ve been stuck on it for so long. Hopefully you’ll see chapter 7 next week.

Of course, there is one thing I learned during this very chaotic time in my life: never make plans. If I make plans something will inevitably make this plans impossible to actualize. If I don’t make plans, I’ll have a good day in which I could do something.

At least that’s the way it seems to be going lately.


If don’t know about my Chapters, I am writing my ICU experience in chapters, like a novel, because I have novel writing exprience. You can read chapters 1 to 5 by going to the heading “my experience in chapters at the top of this blog, and I encourage you to do so.

Everything that happens in the chapters, happened to me while I was in the ICU. Some of it was because of sedation, didn’t actually happen, but it happened to me, as real as anything else happened to me.


My Experience in Chapters – Chapter 6:

I turned from the nurses, who were talking about urine feeds, and followed a empty hospital hallway. As I walked the hallway turned to sand, and the sand turned to desert.

A crowd of people, wandered through and sat at tables in the sand, at outdoor restaurant, entirely made of sand.

A little girl came up to me took my hand and said “Come with me”.

She lead me through buildings and a street made entirely of sand, until I came across my cousin, who greeted me and introduced me to his husband Avers, and his children: a three year old and a baby.

My cousin lead me through the sand, to a mansion made entirely of sand.

“Sand?” I said “You made a real sand castle?”

“Ya isn’t it great? When we get tired of part of it, all we do is tear it down, and build a new part of it. The sand is free. We can add as many additions on to it as we want. Come in.” He lead me to the door, but the idea of being in a sand castle, unnerved me a bit.

I stopped at the door, and asked “Won’t the sand collapse in on us?” I asked.

“No, no, this is a new way of building with sand. It won’t fall until we want it to.”

Still skeptical I followed him in. It was gorgeous. The kitchen, with sand counters, a sand table, sand chairs and sand appliances, lead into a patio that overlooked the beach. As I sat and visited, I watched the water lap into the shore.

“It’s nice for swimming.” I commented.

“Oh ya, the children love to take swimming lessons.”

“I can imagine” I said, as I recounted my own experiences with swimming lessons.

My cousin, and his husband told me about their children and their lives living in this land where everything was made of sand. I started becoming less and less involved, and more and more like I was watching it on a TV, but not apart of it.

I watched cousin take his 3 year old daughter, to a fashion company to design a new nail polish, that marbled as it went on the nails.

She enthusiastically designed the entire nail polish from the colours, how it would marble, and what the end product would be like. Although she was only 3 years old, she acted like a miniature CEO, making all the decisions with the aid of woman who worked for the fashion company.

Her face was put on all the ads and she was made the new “it” girl. This was famous three year old, who everybody wanted their child to be like, lead the fashion industry, and made all the money for the family.

As my cousin was pouring all his attention into his 3 year old, this nail polish (that the fashion company was backing), a famous billionaire (who I won’t name because he really exists), stole the land my cousin and Avers bought, as well as the sand castle on it, and the baby in it.

My cousin took his 3 year old, left the fashion house, and tried to get his baby back. The famous billionaire refused to give the baby back, or to let anybody go and get him.

Just as my cousin’s baby was crawling through sand, perliously close to the ocean with the tide coming it, I was screaming “he’s going to die”, as my cousin hired a helicopter, parachuted on to the beach, grabbed the baby, and ran away.

When my cousin and his daughter returned to the fashion company, they had already moved on to the new “it” child who was even younger and cuter.

Having spent all of their money, my cousin and his husband, tried to make their baby the new “it” child, but were told there the baby was too old and there was a 10 year waiting list for “it” children. They would have to audition a baby that wasn’t born yet, time the babies birth for just the right time, and then go through the process again, if they wanted another “it” child.

Deciding they couldn’t wait 10 years they, found another way to make money and rebuild their lives.


Note: Although this particular cousin doesn’t have a husband or children, it didn’t register as odd that he did at the time.

Note #2: I shortened this storey. As you can see it’s not in novel form. I stuck trying to decided if should even include this storey, because it is so odd and unlike the rest of my ICU experience. I wonder if it was a dream. Why did I fade from my own storey, and become like I was watching it on a tv? Why did it include people who didn’t exist? Why was it so detailed? If I’d written it with dialog it could have become fantasy novella.

In the end, I need to unstuck myself and because it happened in my sedation and is apart of my ICU experience I will include it, even though it is very weird.

Note#3: As always please share this blog post with others.

Thank you for reading and thank you in advance for sharing it.

Ten Reasons You Need Visitors to help with your Workload during Covid.

1.) It helps the already overworked staff.

Visitors can get ice water, ice chips, warm blankets, toast, snacks and other things.

I know that hospital staff are overworked during Covid. Work loads are reduced when visitors get these things.

I know that some visitors are more work than any thing else.

When Mom was in the Rehab hospital, there was a family who was told they couldn’t visit, because too many things went missing (including medication) when they were there.

But… the trustworthy visitors can save you time, and energy, by getting things when the patient needs them.

I still remember the passcode to the door of the kitchenette when Mom was in the main hospital, before she went to rehab. I didn’t give it to other families, but I did get things like toast, boost, and puddings for Mom. Because she wasn’t eating, we were encouraged to offer her food several times a day.

My getting her things made their workload lighter several times a day.


2.) Happier patients are healthier patients.

A hospital room can end up feeling like a prison, especially during days without visitors.

Mood and attitude affects health. I know this from experience, because I’ve been sick all my life.

I clearly remember as a young child figuring out that focusing on my pain and illness only made it worse, and ignoring it, allowed me to play with my brother for longer periods of time. (You can read the blog post “The Week Before I Went to the ICU” for more information).


3.) Happier patients can decrease the length of the hospital stay.

When I had surgery as a child, they expected me to stay in the hospital much longer than the 28 days I did, after surgery. I believe the difference, is my mother, although pregnant with my brother at the time, had only one child outside the whom. She was able to stay at the hospital 24 hours a day, sleeping in the bed beside mine.

Originally she slept on an air mattress beside my hospital bed, but during the first night, when my mother was pumping up her air mattress for the 2nd time, a nurse offered her a hospital bed, and tied the two beds together. (If you are that nurse, and are reading this – thank you).


4.) A positive mood, makes a more compliant patient and a less grumpy patient.


5.) A visitor can sometimes give a more complete story, than a very sick and confused patient. This aids in diagnosis, treatment and compliance.


6.) Staff can not be with patients 24 hours a day. Visitors can.


7.) When the patient is discharged, the family will need to know what happened in the hospital, and how to take care of the patient when they are at home. They can not do that if they were not there and do not know what happened.


8.) When the patient goes to their family doctor, a specialist appointment or returns for another hospital stay, the visitor can tell the story of the hospital stay.


My mother does not remember what happened when she was in the hospital. She has no memory of that entire year, of many of the acquaintances she had before, of many family events and many other things. Her normal pressure hydrocephalus took a lot of those memories away.

I remember, because I’m was her caregiver.


9.) Adequate treatment partly depends of an accurate storey.

When I take Mom to emergency and hospital appointments now I am not allowed to go in. She gets inadequate treatment, because she doesn’t remember her own medical storey, and I’m left trying to explain it to the triage nurse before she she even sees the doctor. I can’t anticipate every question the doctor will have and there isn’t any privacy outside emergency room doors.

Depending on how she’s feeling that day, she doesn’t always tell what she does know accurately.

It is not fair to deprive her of a full and complete medical exam.


10.) Recovery depends on a will to live.

I know when I was in the ICU, the hospital staff worked hard to make me live, including putting me on a ventilator, and countless other machines, as well as using the crash cart, jumping on top of me and doing stuff to save my life when I crashed on Christmas day. (My mother was surprised at how quickly “30 people where there” and how “that one man jumped on your chest”).

I also know I was fighting to live with all of my being. I fought so hard to wake up, to live, and get healthy again. I knew I was dying. It’s so hard to explain, but I know if I had wanted to choose to die, I could have.

If when faced with the choice to keep fighting or just let death take over, the patient is wondering where they’re family is, death would be an easier choice to make. Certainly it would be much less work.


Note #1:

If you are confused: I was Mom’s caregiver when she had Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus, and a few years later when she recovered enough to take care of herself, I got sick and went to the ICU for an allergy I didn’t know I had. When I was discharged she became my caregiver. When I recovered enough to take care of myself, my father was diagnosed with a terminal illness, and my mother and I are his caregivers now. The lives of caregivers and patients can overlap, and roles can dramatically switch.

My mother and I both might be able to take care of ourselves and are currently caregivers for Dad, but neither of us are fully recovered. Hopefully we will be in the future.


Note #2:

I know that having visitors during Covid is complicated, but it’s very important, and I implore you to find a way to allow at least one visitor per patient during this pandemic.

It will help your patients and your staff in so many ways, especially, chidlren, teens, seniors, the critically ill, and those with cognitive issues.

I know you will have to screen visitors, because bad visitors can make things worse for everybody.


Thank you for reading this. Please share it however you want. You can retweet, or like the tweet you read this in, share it on your other social media platforms, or follow this blog.

I will try to post something written by me or a guest blogger every Friday (which I have no realized that for some of you is Saturday, because my Friday night is some people’s Saturday mornings).

On a personal note, my life has become very stressful, and small things like getting dressed (when during covid I have nowhere to go), and doing anything more than watching streaming services when somebody doesn’t need me, is becoming harder and harder.

If you are reading this an are helped by this, please let me know, by commenting, retweeting or sharing this. I need the encouragement. If you have any idea how to get out of this sadness, let me know, even if it’s just a cute video, or useful advice.

Thank you.

Tide Pod Challenge and Covid19.

Things have changed in the world because of Covid19. Entire countries have shut down, some people have taken great precautions and some people have not.

When I was in the ICU, the Tide Pod Challenge was popular. I overheard some ICU nurses discussing the challenge, and questioning why people didn’t take warnings about not consuming poison seriously.

Today the danger is different, but the people’s reaction to it isn’t. Many people are taking precautions, by wearing masks, washing their hands and staying at home. Many other people are refusing to, protesting new pandemic rules, and ignoring all sensible advice about not getting covid.

The cause of the danger is different, but the response is the same: some people are completely disregarding medical advice.

The question is the same: Why don’t people listen to medical professionals.

The answer is also the same: People don’t understand what is like to be that sick. They think it is the same as being sick with the flu.

For most people, the sickest they’ve been is having a bad cold or stomach flu. They’ve never been in the hospital and they never had a serious or life threatening medical condition.

They think the most pain they can ever be in is child birth, with painkillers.

They haven’t been in so much pain, that all they can see is a black void of nothingness. They haven’t been taught how to embrace the pain, and go through it, because fighting it just makes it worse.

They haven’t had to work to open their eyes when visitors come, but found that it took more effort than anything else they had ever done before. They haven’t tried desperately to get untied from a bed, so they could escape the nightmare of sedation.

They don’t understand, and likely never will.

They are more likely to think of a violent stomach flu, in which you can’t vomit anymore, because you’re stomach is empty, but still you’re stomach tries to throw up nothing, when they think of being very sick, than what I described above.

If they were told, “wash your hands, wear a mask, and stay at home if you can, or you will have a violent stomach flu, that will go on for days, maybe weeks”, they would be more be likely to wash their hands, wear a mask or stay at home, because to them, being on a ventilator in the ICU is so foreign it might as well be mars.

It’s just incomprehensible and completely beyond any comparison to any place they’ve ever been to or anything they’ve been through before.

With a threat that is so unknown, rarely talked about, misrepresented in the media, and rarely seen in person, most people just truly don’t understand the risk.

Like the teens consuming Tide Pods they think that getting sick, is at most a trip to the hospital, watching TV all day, getting meals served at meal time, sleeping in an uncomfortable bed, and then resuming normal activities in a few weeks.

They don’t know that the hospital stay and delirium can cause PTSD, that muscle mass severely decreases in the ICU, or that the recovery process lasts months, if not years.

They can’t understand, because they have no basis, in which to understand.

Most fictional characters who’ve been in the ICU, aren’t that sick. In one show I saw, a main character decided he had enough of being in the hospital, pulled out all of this wires, and unhooked all of his machines in one motion, before getting up and walking out of the hospital, with his nurse following behind saying “you can’t go.” He didn’t even need to worry about a hospital gown that didn’t quite close in the back, because his fit perfectly.

Although people understand fiction isn’t real, if it’s the only source of information you have about a place you’ve never been, your imagination of that place, will be close to the fiction you watch and read.

We who know what it is like to be patients, staff in the ICU and visitors in the ICU, need to tell them what the ICU is like. We need to speak up and say “hey, as sick as you’ve ever been, this is so much more than that.”

I truly believe that most people, would not want themselves or their loved ones, to be in the ICU if they knew what it is like. It’s not like the maternity ward, that most people have visited, or like the emergency ward that many people have waited hours in to see a doctor. It’s for the very sickest of people.

If I told people “what ever you do, never go beyond that wall over there. Don’t go through that door, ever.”, but I never told them what was behind the wall. Even if there were dragons, volcanoes and hurricanes behind that wall, few people care that I was telling them never to go through that door and behind that wall, especially if they didn’t know me, and most especially if other’s, they did know, told them that harmless puppies were behind that wall.

Add discomfort like isolation, and mask wearing in the room they were suppose to be in, and many people would completely disregard the warning.

Other’s would loudly proclaim me to be stupid, or even destructive.

This is why misrepresentation of the ICU is wrong, and it is why for those of us who know staying silent about the ICU is wrong.

I’m telling my story as much as I can. I’m yelling as loud as I can but I need you to yell too, and maybe we’ll get people believing that getting Covid19 can be worse than following public health advice about washing hands, wearing masks and social distancing.

Maybe we can stop this together. Will you help me?


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Sick Today

I know I said I’d write blog posts every Friday. I’m sorry I can’t today.

I woke up last night because of diareaha, went back to bed, woke up mid morning, went about my very busy day and somewhat strange day, and then started feeling sick again when it got dark.

Why does illness get worse at night when people need sleep, instead of the day when there’s no sleep to interrupt?

I’ve been trying to post, but editing and writing posts is being prevented by illness.

See you next Friday.

P.S. I know I spelled diareah wrong. I don’t care enough right now to look it up and correct it. It seems like a lot of work. Maybe later. 😉

Sick Today

I know I said I’d write blog posts every Friday. I’m sorry I can’t today.

I woke up last night because of diareaha, went back to bed, woke up mid morning, went about my very busy day and somewhat strange day, and then started feeling sick again when it got dark.

Why does illness get worse at night when people need sleep, instead of the day when there’s no sleep to interrupt?

I’ve been trying to post, but editing and writing posts is being prevented by illness.

See you next Friday.

P.S. I know I spelled diareah wrong. I don’t care enough right now to look it up and correct it. It seems like a lot of work. Maybe later. 😉

Children, Doctors and Consent

As I’ve said before, my time in the ICU was not my only time in the hospital. I was born sick and was a sick child, who had many surgeries.

This one is not going to be about the ICU. It’s going to be about the time I spent in the hospital after my major surgery when I was a toddler.


“Rain rain go away, come again another day”, I sang out to a doctor as I slid under my bed.

He commanded me to come out, but I refused.

He wasn’t even my doctor. I didn’t even know him, but he wanted to learn from me, and I refused. I would not come out and my mother refused to make me.

Instead she responded by saying “she may not be 3 yet, but she has a right to say ‘no’”, and told him to go.

As a hospital staff member, you might be reading this thinking I was a brat. As my mother was telling me this, she laughed thinking how cute I was.

I’m not a brat, and I never was a brat.

Before you judge a sick child’s brattiness, consider what it is like to be a sick child, and what you want that child (all children), to know about their own bodies, an boundary’s.

I was almost three, small for my age, and in my own way saying “no, I don’t want you to touch me right there, right now”, and I had a perfect right to do so.

I understood I was sick, and that I had been sick all my life. At almost three, I was a medical veteran, who had more medical procedures, surgeries, medications, doctor’s visits, sick sleepless nights, and pain than most adults have ever had in their lifetimes.

At that time I was saying to a stranger “no, not now, you can not touch me”.

My mother was making people respect my right to say “no”, and to have control over my own body. My body wasn’t a learning tool for some resident who wasn’t even part of my surgery team to look at, prod and learn from. I wasn’t a textbook, or stethoscope. I was a developing child, whose mother recognized was learning about how to be a person and eventually an adult from that moment. She was allowing me the privilege of saying “no, you can’t touch me”. And she was absolutely right.

It doesn’t matter than she was inconveniencing and even angering medical staff. They are adults. They’ve already learned their bodies were their own, and about consent. They weren’t being asked to be touched, and examined and have medical gowns pulled away to expose bare skin. They were not the ones in their formative years.

My mother was teaching me what consent was and that saying “no” to being touched is ok.

Maybe thinking about consent with a toddler is, uncomfortable to think about, but sick toddlers grow up to be adults, and if those children have learned as toddlers that they don’t have a right to say “no”, and that they can be touched when ever and where ever a stranger wants to touch them, and that they are “brats”, if they don’t concent, how are they going to apply that when they are adults?

If your a child who has already been told your consent doesn’t matter, how will you respond to a pedophile?

If you’re a teen who has learned as child that you can’t say “no”, how is that going to affect sexual exploration?

If you are an adult, who has already learned, that you don’t have control over your own body, how is that going to affect your ability to distinguish abuse from normal adult relationships?

Children are growing, learning and understanding the world around them. They are not little science experiments, or textbooks. They are not work places.

They are people, who deserve the right to grow up, in control of their own bodies. Do not break their spirits in an attempt to fix their bodies, or worse, learn from their bodies.

If you work with children, in a hospital or medical setting, remember that. Please see your child patients as developing and learning from everything you do, and ask yourself “what you do want them to learn from you?”.


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