After a Fall: A Sociomedical Sojourn by Laurel Richardson

By Laurel Richardson

For popular sociologist and author Laurel Richardson, a damaged foot ended in a month as a sufferer in a longer care facility. during this compelling description of her lived adventure in a single of those associations, she addresses key questions of healthiness supply and behaviour: nurses who will be angelic or merciless, institutional regulations frequently dependent to maximise source of revenue over care, and sufferers whose habit usually doesn't reflect the severity in their situation. She issues to inequality of remedy of sufferers of other ethnicities, genders, and sessions, and to an underclass of future health workers—often negative immigrants—whose personal own and familial difficulties reflect these in their sufferers. Enfolded in an enthralling narrative of existence within the facility, Richardson’s e-book is a revealing literary autoethnography designed for social scientists, wellbeing and fitness care pros, and scholars alike.

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She’s a nurse. Retired. She air-hugs me and her deep blue eyes scan me. ” She gave me eye drops once. She scrubbed her hands, scrubbed my cheek, gently tipped my head back, lowered my eyelids, dripped the drops into my eyes, told me to close them and hold that position for thirty-seconds. I never had such care taken of my eyes before or since. Elaine is careful. Hmm. Full of Care. ” I air-hug her back. “Looks good,” she says. ” Colleen and I arrive at the Therapy Room where Colleen supervises my leg and foot exercises.

That’s right. That’s the word—ha-lu-ci-na-tions. ” Vena’s West African lilting voice. ” “Yes. ” “I was having supper,” Vena says. ” I am in a rage. I want to punch her. ” Malingerer! Vena looks down, starts to speak and doesn’t. “Help me to the commode,” I order. 42 Laurel Richardson “Time for you meds,” Nurse Kiendra says. I didn’t see her come in. I think she is really here. “Why didn’t you answer my call light? ” “I’m not taking the Vicodin,” I say, belligerently. I want to pull that blood-diamond right off her ring finger.

Keep getting well. ” Ring ring ring. ” Ring ring ring. ” My college roommate’s alto voice. ” Ring ring ring.  .  . My older son Ben and his wife Tami come into my room, bearing gifts: Fresh flowers in a blue curvy vase, and dinner, Japanese noodles from Noodles. They settle in the window-side chairs. It is 5:30. Both of them are blond, blue-eyed, and trim. He is nearly a foot taller than she. If I hadn’t seen Ben being born, I would have doubted he was mine. No brown eyes or a lick of brown hair.

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