10. There Is A Balm In Gilead

My first thought when I woke up in intensive care was to encourage my family. They looked so sad. At that point, there was still some strength in my right hand, so I could make a thumbs up/ thumbs down sign, and waver my hand for 'maybe'. Somehow, I was given a pen and a clipboard was held up and I tried to write, 'There is a balm in Gilead'. This was a reference to an 80s gospel song I'd been obsessed with all summer, and a completely obscure Bible reference. I found it hilarious that the singers were really into these words, which are so obscure. I've looked it up and it basically means 'There is healing'. This was when I found out that the fine motor skills in my fingers had gone, and everything I tried to write was unintelligible squiggles. I gave up on writing that sentence and tried something simpler. After some hilarious mis-guesses, they got it. I wrote, 'Jesus'.

Eventually, I was given a letter board. At first my Mum was reading out each letter and I was indicating 'yes' or 'no', which was very boring. Soon I was strong enough to point. People frequently got letters wrong, or got the word spacing wrong. I now realise I should have used it like a telegram, but at the time it was just annoying that a space bar wasn't included. I saw it all as an elaborate game which I knew I wouldn't be playing for long.

Our friend Tom, who happens to be a neurologist, visited and gave useful reassurance. He left us a children's book that his family had just enjoyed.  I'm sure the staff secretly loved listening in as we read 'The Explorer', a story of some kids who crash land in the Amazon rainforest, and how they survive. I couldn't help but relate to the descriptions of hunger and thirst. One description of the kids eating pineapple really set me off. I started miming along to the story, and when my family asked what I was doing, I spelt out that I was acting out the story. It's hard playing charades with one hand whilst lying down.

The staff began sitting me in a chair each day for an hour once I had the traccy in. Sadly, they never faced me toward the 'amazing view' behind my head that people kept banging on about when they visited me. (I was on the 11th floor of a tower-block hospital.) I resigned myself to watching the light shine through the windows onto the ceiling when the sun rose. One time, when I was being hoisted into a chair, someone used the pet name, 'little sausage' for me. I burst into silent laughter. (I couldn't make noise with the traccy in.) They looked concerned because my face could express itself by then, and laughing looks a lot like crying. Thankfully, they worked out that I found the name funny.

Once the traccy was in they started washing me daily too. They asked my mum to bring in my own pyjamas so I wasn't just wearing hospital gowns. I actually didn't really like this, as, in order to put a top over my head, they had to temporarily disconnect me from the ventilator. My heart lurched every time they did this, but it was actually alright. (My Mum bought me nice new pyjamas because I badly pooed all over my own, which I never really liked anyway, ha.)

One day, my nurse said they'd put me in the shower and take me outside. It normally took 3 people to wash me as they had to make sure the tubes were okay. That day 4 of them tried, but I was starting to get a massive cough that activated when the tubes were moved, and the cough was putting me in jeopardy. We didn't go to the shower. I was privately relieved.

That made the nurse all the more determined that I would go outside. 3 people hoisted me into a wheelchair and a technician had to come with a portable ventilator. I think someone else came, and, along with Andrew, Margaret and Joanna (the family), we were off! I was taken down in the lift to the front door, overlooking the car park. This was ironic because I used to go down that road every week to our Christian Union which meets in the med school, literally the next door along. It was a beautifully sunny and warm autumn day, and a plague of ladybirds was out. We stayed there for about 10 minutes. I think I took a ladybird back inside with me.

Then, on Friday 12th October, they were ready to send me to Leicester. I was bundled up on a stretcher and plugged into a temporary ventilator which made it very hard to breathe. I was obviously distressed. A doctor decided to sedate me for the journey, and we set off. I was confused about this 'sedation' because I was still conscious. I kept widening my eyes at the doctor and nurse who accompanied me, to prove I was still awake. I don't think they noticed. Breathing felt very laboured, but I got used to it and I was okay. I could hear all the ambulance drivers' grumbling about traffic not moving out of the way. I arrived a few hours later, around 5pm, in intensive care at the Leicester General Hospital.

Looking back at my time in Sheffield overall, it wasn't funny, but I found moments incredibly surreal and comical. It reminds me of a poem I wrote two years ago called 'Joking Doesn't Always Work'. I was just writing about how I deal with my emotions in general. It wasn't based on any particular even, but it seems very poignant now.

Where are the emojis?