Disassembling the nose mask

Once again, one asks oneself, does this have to be? Yet another copy & paste from a user manual? Seriously?

Yes, I am completely serious. I kicked the last nurse who tried to put on a mask the wrong way round out of my team. And he got a warning from his employer. There were a dozen more incidents. One more unbelievable than the other. But still, for a trained intensive care nurse to put the nose part on the mouth and the mouth part on the nose... record-breaking. The fact that he also doesn't get it until the end, where the problem even lies, that's a certificate of poverty. Shouldn't happen. Shouldn't happen. But it does. Over and over again. It is so unspeakably tiring, I can tell you.

The next time that happens, I'll jump off the balcony. Another sentence I have to get rid of. I've been saying it too often lately. Besides, it doesn't make sense if you have to rely on someone else's help to do it because you can't get your ass up. Well, at least I can still get something else up. Seriously, best grab a mask right now and give it a try. Better yet, before we take the mask apart, please put it on for a second. Imagine you're on a ventilator. Like me. Without ventilation, I'd go over the Isar in a matter of minutes. Imagine further that the tube on your nose is the only source of air that has kept you afloat for the past twelve months. Now try to really put yourself in my shoes for a situation I am about to describe. A situation that occurs unchanged at least once a week.

You are lying in bed, your head is turned upwards when you change your mask. There is no speech computer or any eye control at all up there. You feel like the proverbial bug on your back. You don't make a sound when you're lying there like that. Your abdominal, torso and chest muscles just don't give it any more. Do you still feel comfortable in my skin? Well, then imagine the nurse changing your mask now. Unfortunately, he still hasn't realised that he should take a look at these instructions. He has also never been trained what it means to have to wear the mask all his life. That's probably why he thinks nothing, and certainly nothing bad, when he once again tucks the hose between your bed and his legs. You're just waiting for it. You know exactly what is about to happen. And there it is. The slight "click", a sound that has become scary for you. You hear it every time a careless nurse pulls so hard on the hose and mask that a piece of the elbow of the mask comes loose from its lock. The air is no longer forced into your lungs with overpressure, but - logically - takes the path of least resistance. And this is now the path that leads from the opening in the elbow directly to freedom. In other words, you can't breathe. You can't make yourself heard. The machine would alarm, but the orderly deactivates the alarm as usual without any control. In his self-convinced recklessness, he assumes that the alarm is still from the mask change. You close your eyes, fully concentrating on bringing your body down to a low flame. Save precious seconds. You feel yourself reaching the point where the oxygen saturation in your blood starts to drop. Shit. Help me, damn it. Look at me already. Open your fucking ears. You can hear it all the way to the balcony, the air going everywhere but where it's supposed to go. Same thing every time. I wonder how many times you will have to give yourself this stress in the future? Your flow of thoughts is abruptly interrupted by a questioning face asking if everything is alright.

No, it's not, you dumbass. You ripped my mask apart because you didn't pay attention to the hose again, you moron. Why do I have to explain this to you every week? I'm dying here. Do something about it. You'd like to tell him that. But there's just enough muscle strength to open your eyes and squint at your nose. Is there something wrong with the mask, he asks you. We are not quick on the uptake today. At least now you both know that there is something wrong with the mask. But what could it be? And more importantly, what is the cause? If you could speak, you would answer, the same as every time. But instead you look into questioning eyes. Your nurse asks you what the problem is. The mask is stuck. You are afraid of what is about to happen. And it happens. Like every time. The nurse's cure-all. Press the mask so hard it hurts. Tie the straps so tightly that it constricts the back of your throat. 60 to 90 seconds have passed. You're starting to feel dizzy.

You are only partially aware of your surroundings. You just stare at the old mask and wait for your carer to finally check what's going on or switch back to the other mask.

Change of scene. If the caregiver had read the following lines or had received training, you would have been spared another moment of horror. Ideally, your carers would not even pull your mask every day and ignore and disregard your constant requests for mindfulness. But if it did happen, at least they would know how to fix your mask after you broke it through carelessness. Once again you ask yourself, can this be true? Yes, I am completely serious, it is true. I wrote this word one Tuesday afternoon in October 2022. In this week alone - that is, in 36 hours - I have already had to endure three mask dramas with three different caregivers. And this despite the fact that this has already been the crisis material par excellence with the management of my care service for several weeks.

Yet another copy & paste from a user manual? I'll venture a brash guess. You won't be asking that question now that you've had the chance to see my point of view. So, into the fray. RTFM.