34. Not A Toy

Soon I was moved out from the side room into the female bay. Maybe it was too disconcerting for staff, walking past and having me watching their every move. I was given the bed with the most wall space as a comprise for moving, as I was loathe to move my by-then heavily decorated wall (we'd made a card and picture display my dad was in charge of). They usually try to put new patients in side rooms, decanting the previous occupant into a bay. I actually preferred being in a bay. The other 3 patients were all seniors, and didn't really chat, but staff were always in and out (a nurse and health care assistant is assigned to each bay). That was a shade more interesting than looking at the toilet all day.

The occupational therapist in charge of me was called Lindsay. Every week we would do washing and dressing, where I would practise washing and dressing myself. What's that occupational therapy spiel? 'Helping you achieve independence.' Anyway, I was a two-to-one for this as I could hardly sit upright and was very wobbley, and you need 2 for hoisting. The first time I did w+d, it was with another occupational therapist called Sarah. She reminded me of Tigger in Winnie the Pooh. You might have thought he was scary because he is a tiger, but he is, really a bouncy soft toy. I only realised this when I got to know her. Her sterness was probably because I was a bit too excited at the attention, and laughing too much at my own inability to do simple tasks. I fear I provoked Lindsay and Sarah a bit, especially when it was time to be hoisted into my chair and I wanted to see if I could swing from the hoist. Heart attacks all round. You know, I was hoisted for a good few months, several times a day, and I never quite got over how fun I found it.

To be hoisted, a fabric sling is placed under you, by a process of you rolling. The hoist looks like a mini-crane on wheels with a coat-hanger like handle attached to the arm that the sling hooks on to. It's like being in a little cocoon, or hammock, as you go up, NOT a swing. Then you are lowered into the chair. When you're seated the sling is whippef out from behind you. Some people hate the feeling of being lifted, but I just saw it as a game. Gotta get your kicks somewhere. The ward had 3 hoists. I called them Sandra and Philip (married), and Wayne (their son). Wayne kept being stolen by the neighbouring ward, so I said he was off looking for a girlfriend.

My worst hoisting experience was when the staff tried to get me using a She-Wee. For those that don't know, this is like a shoe-shaped plastic container for women to pee into, like how men can use bottles. I'll leave you to work out how to use it. It was suggested because, as I sat out longer, I would have to be hoisted onto the bed to use a bedpan to pee, then hoisted back into my chair, often twice a day. (I became hyper-aware of how often I needed to pee, and timed it to exactly when it wasn't super busy, so 2 staff would have time to hoist me.) Using a Shee-Wee would save the faff, so I was keen to try it. (I had to keep telling staff how to use it, as most didn't know.)

The first time I used one, I used it in the toilet, and it worked fine! I was a bit shell shocked by the novelty, which Laura noticed, and laughed when I told her why. But then came an awful string of days where it kept going wrong. I pooed on it. 3 days in a row. I'm gonna firmly blame the eager administration of laxatives for this. I swear I don't need to poo every day, but not pooing makes doctors suspicious, and laxatives were liberally prescribed. (Laxatives are commonly prescribed for people who don't walk much, as then you aren't churning your guts by moving, so you can get a bit bunged up.) Something was up if it was 3 days in a row though. I kept thinking, surely that wouldn't happen again. It was very alarming to not have known I needed to poo before hand.

I told the staff what had happened and was quickly moved to my bed space. As they were getting the hoist ready, one health care assistant went to get supplies and the other readied the sling. However, the swinging end of the hoist swung forward and lightly bashed my chest. I was fine, but the health care assistant looked so concerned I immediately burst out laughing, and promptly wet myself. What a sight to come back to.

New (and last) bed space.