47. A(commode)ation

By the new year, the funny poo stories ended, by the way. I started wearing actual clothes, instead of easily replaced pyjamas, as I was not incontinent. Except one time a nurse gave me a few too many laxatives and I pooed myself. Mild laxatives were freely offered in the mornings, as when you're not very mobile your gut isn't churned up by daily activity, so constipation is a common hospital problem. I can't express enough how eye-widening it feels to poo yourself with absolutely no warning. But apart from that one time, physically, my bowels were fine. Socially, it was still excruciating having someone just waiting for you to finish doing your business on a bedpan, and then if that business was commented on.

Rachel had a physio student assigned to her, so I started to be visited by a double-act. Rachel would pause to explain some muscle thing to Becky, so I couldn't help but learn too. Becky used to come and do work with me on the plinths in the gym. I remember rolling onto my front for the first time and not being able to roll back. Stuck in this prone position, I laughed so hard I dribbled all over the plinth. We once did another excercise involving Rachel wrapping a sheet around me and pulling my hips. I'm not sure what Becky was doing, or even remember the point of the excercise (balance? Weight -shifting?). All I know is, I was standing with Rachel sitting on the plinth behind me, and I kept being pulled into her lap. Very bonding.

We had been working on me wiggling onto the plinth using a banana board for a while, until I was finally officially allowed to banana board with everyone. Weirdly, the banana board was GREEN. It was kind of lozange-shaped, but a bit curved, like a chubby boomerang. The goal was, to place the board between chair and destination, and calmly bump across the board in little squat-and-swivel motions. I tended to throw myself across the gap, board flying out of place. No matter how hard I tried, the board slipped and slid, and I looked like I was in a hurry. Never graceful, but I got there.

Now I could get onto one, I could start to use commodes. With the banana board making a bridge between wheelchair and commode, I could hop over. This was hardly smooth, but meant I could be wheeled over the toilet. No more bedpans. I did have some trouble initially with getting my trousers down, but soon had the confidence to stand up holding onto a grab-rail. I found being pulled along on the commode quite fun, and would take the chance to say, "weeeee!" I loved it when the staff played along and made the ride more shakey. Gotta get those kicks somewhere. I couldn't find a video of people messing around with commodes (just so!), but you get the idea. I was reminded of the 2012 London Olympics opening ceremony's tribute to the NHS. Love to see staff enjoying themselves.

Now I could shuffle myself around, we practised transfering into a car. The first time we attempted it, I tried to get into Sarah's car. It didn't go well. I ended up stuck, giving Lindsay a standing hug and not knowing what to do next, as Rachel laughed her head off. I was trying not to be too debilitated by my own laughter as Lindsay was finding the predicament of being stuck as my sole support quite stressful. Another time, a few weeks later, Rachel came and tried banana boarding with me into my dad's car. It was a success, and meant a home visit was soon planned.

Homes had to be assessed by  an occupational therapist and a physiotherapist, so Lindsay and Rachel, along with student Becky, took me by taxi to my house. They saw how the wheelchair got in the house, and advised us to put a grab-rail in the downstairs toilet. Our house actually had very few changes to be made. I could banana board onto the sofa, or even just throw myself across it. Going home was not a big emotional achievement for me. I guess I was away during my gap year, and when I was at uni. But then again, I've never been really attached to the houses I've lived in. I wrote a poem at the time about my (lack of) feelings associated with the home visit, called 'Going Home.' From that point on, the therapists gave me the all clear to go home at the weekends.

Andrew looks on as Elizabeth hits the sofa and dies. Rachel rests a sad hand next to her inert body, thinking of all the paperwork she will have to fill in.

46. Watch Out For The Bike!

Well, the wheelchair and the glove have arrived! The glove holds my fingers and thumb out in tension with small rubber bands. Fighting this resistance I can make a pinch using my thumb and forefinger. The glove came with some little foam cubes, so I have been practising my fine motor skills by stacking them. The glove looks very sci-fi, like a bionic hand or gauntlet. Can't snap my fingers yet, though. I feel very superhero. Good job I've learned from the films, and know if I'm nothing without the suit, I shouldn't have it on. It's gonna need practise.

When the new wheelchair arrived, the occupational therapists had a field day. Cyprian and Becca both tried it out, and I practised in the garden. I had thought the electric would be a big, scary Ares, god of war, but next to my acoustic, it looked squat and beetle-like. It reminded me of a little black gun dog puppy introduced to an adult in its prime. I called it Pluto. Hermes sat patiently as we scampered around with excited Pluto, a bit battle-scarred but not what you'd call old. I reassured him Pluto would just be for outdoor use, and I'd still use Hermes indoors.

The next day Cyprian and I test-drove Pluto to the shop and I bought potatoes, beans and cheese. Back at our centre, I prepared the meal myself, using a one handed workstation that I had bought. That workstation has a clamp to hold food, so you can cut it with your free hand. It's rather fun. A useful, utilitarian tool, I reminded myself, and not a toy. I also used an electric can-opener for the beans. I could then put everything in the microwave fine. It was a good way to see what I could make for myself. A simple meal, but doable. If all else fails, potato will have to be the way forward.

This bank holiday, my dad's family had a gathering in York. On Saturday, I joined in with the first part of a 10 mile walk, crushing the dirt with the electric wheelchair. I managed to go through a field and 2 kissing gates easily, with 7 children running ahead to make sure it was wheelchair accessible. I confess I prefer being pushed - it requires less concentration on making sure I'm not drifting into a child. I also find driving a bit boring (probably all the concentrating). I passed my driving test first time when I was 18. I'm not actually a bad driver, once I know what I'm doing. It's the same with the electric. Just scared I'll get distracted and run someone over.

Later, my cousin Emre pushed me all over York, with Joanna. As well as going into some bookshops, we were also impressed by the summer ambience of York in the late evening. A wheelchair does look a bit out of place though amongst shambling streets, rowdy bars, chilled-out buskers and soft sepia lighting. Our day was made when one man enjoying the night-life saw us coming and cautioned his friend, saying "watch out for the bike!"

Triplets?

45. There's A Snake In My Belly

I feel like it got to a point where I was the little ward mascot, I'd been there so long. Once, one of the student nurses was being nurse-in-charge for the day, and made me a paper patient-in-charge badge. Staff kept sticking it back on me, which I found a bit embarrassing. Didn't want people to think my ego had inflated that much as to have actually made myself a label. Not like I made it my business to know everyone in the ward. People just talked about their business very loudly. A few junior doctors were specifically sent my way to learn about my experiences as I was deemed very on the ball.

One day in the new year, it was time for Dean to be discharged. All of the therapists and some of the staff and patients lined the doorway. He slowly walked out alongside Alison, his physio, concentrating hard, but without her (physical) support. He said that level of concentration required tunnel-vision, so he didn't see that Andy, another patient, was in tears. He had had a stroke too, was a similar age to Dean, and he would be discharged next. In that heightened emotional atmosphere, with everyone cheering and clapping, it was not surprising he was affected. Tears sprung to my eyes at the sight, and Sarah saw me and welled up too. Discharges weren't often that affecting, or as well attended. It was a testament to Dean's character, and positivity.

In the new year I also had my worst hospital experience, when I couldn't use a toilet for 6 hours. I had an eye appointment over at the other hospital. Because I couldn't transfer into a car, it was arranged through the inter-hospital ambulance transport service. I was immensely distrustful of this service. However, I managed to turn up for my 9:20ish appointment on time. I was told basically the muscles in my eye were weak and shaky due to the nerves in the brain. This was something that they couldn't do anything about and would improve over time. This took all of 10 minutes. Then we had to wait for an ambulance to pick me up, spending the whole day in the opthomology waiting area. The boss came and apologised, and the ambulance was chased up by their reception and by the neuro rehab ward. Luckily my dad and sister were with me.

A few hours in, I was already bursting for a pee. We were sat right by the disabled toilet, but I couldn't use it because I couldn't transfer onto it. After a ridiculous wait, the ambulance drivers came at 4:00. They had to drop off another patient first though at a nursing home, so I got back at more like 5:00. I have never been so desperate for the loo, or a bedpan, in all my life. I'm traumatised just thinking about it. I told the driver to turn the siren on.

Around that time I got an appointment to have my PEG tube removed. On the day, I had to be nil by mouth for 6 hours, which wasn't a problem as it was first thing in the morning. Amy the health care assistant walked with my bed down to Endoscopy. I had managed to convince the doctors I wouldn't need an emergency needle (cannula) in my arm, as I told them I wouldn't panic and need sedating. Then, lying in my bed, I was wheeled into the operating room. A PEG tube is attached a bit like thread in fabric; it has a knot on the inside. It needs to be snipped to be removed, and the knot taken out.

To remove it, the tube was snipped off from the outside. Then a long bendy black probe with a camera on the end, which looked like a snake or an eel, went down my throat. Tiny graspers on the end grabbed the knot-come-loose, then the tube was pulled back up out my mouth. The doctors talked me through what everything was going to be like. There were four people in scrubs, but it seemed to be one lovely lady's job to just comfort me, and tell me I was doing well. A numbing spray that tasted a bit like bananas was sprayed down my throat, and between my teeth was put a mouth-guard (which looked a lot like a dummy), which had a hole in it for the probe to go through. The probe was a lot thicker and wirey-er than what I was expecting. The way it hung in the air felt like it was looking at me, inspecting me; animal, and curious. I still can't quite grasp it was swallow-able.

This snake went through the dummy. They didn't put me under anesthetic, as it was a quick simple job, and it helps if you can swallow the probe down. I swallowed the probe, marvelling at how I could still breathe. Breathing through my teeth sounded a lot like Darth Vader. I was warned that the coil of plastic entering my stomach would make me feel bloated, and it did. I could feel it poking around inside me. They could see the insides of my stomach on a computer screen, through the probe's camera. This screen was in my line of sight, but I kept my eyes shut to concentrate on staying relaxed (and not laugh at my own mental images). The tiny graspers on the end of the probe got the PEG knot, and they started to pull the probe back. It popped out of my mouth with a little rasping burp. It was coin-sized, and yellow.

Me singing to Joanna in my bay.

44. I'm Going To Cut Off My Hair

Well, I've ordered the electric wheelchair, and the SaeboGlove has been approved and dispatched. They should both arrive next week. The Botox in my arm has worked well. My hand has the same grip and movement without becoming flaccid. My dad and I have practiced walking down the stairs everyday this week, and I have been using the treadmill a lot with the physio assistant. (This is a rehab treadmill by the way, which goes nice and slowly. Not jogging yet.)

My dad and I also had a fruitful trip up to Sheffield. Yes, my plans are all on track for going back. We visited a private physiotherapy clinic I am planning to go to. I think they were worried that their facilities weren't neuro-specific enough for me, but then saw my level and said I'd be more than welcome to come to them next month. To be honest, it would be nice to leave brain injury land behind. I also re-registered back at my university GP. We could organise NHS community physiotherapy through them, but I've been told to seek it privately to be on the safe side. No danger of waiting lists.

After seeing some friends for lunch, we saw my accommodation again. It's a university flat of 6 returning students. The front door already has a push button opening, because of the girl living there who already uses an electric wheelchair. I can get my room door open myself, yay. When I viewed it this week, it was to advise them about where to put in grab-rails in the bathroom. I've been given the room because it has an ensuite wetroom. It's a bit bigger than my wetroom at the moment, but walking around it looks potentially easier, once the rails are in. We also viewed the on-site private gym. It has a swimming pool with a hoist, which is ideal. The physio also told me they can come with me to look at which of the equipment is appropriate for me to use.

Finally, we met my social worker, and an occupational therapist. She said she could source a self-propelling commode for my bathroom. The hard part is working out how I'm going to be fed. My friend Anna is down to live with me, but I don't think you can hire someone you live with to make food. We could just call her my carer, as it makes so much sense for us to eat together, but I hardly need care. I could cook with her. I just ordered loads of one handed cooking aids; I'm ready to help! Also, I have the feeling my church community will be keen. I already used to eat with other people once or twice a week when I was at university before. Lots of people are looking out for me. Plus, I have have other friends returning from years abroad. I know I'm not going to starve.

The debate with my social worker is getting someone to supervise my morning routine, as it rings alarm bells, a disabled person in a new environment walking alone in a bathroom. In theory, supervision makes sense, but in practice, I know it will feel a bit silly. Someone would have to come into my room in the morning, stand outside the room whilst I showered and got dressed, then go. This only takes about 20 minutes. I know, it wouldn't have to be for long. Currently, Becca has just changed my care plan to say I can walk in the bathroom with regular staff. By a month, I think I'll be more than ready. All that really limits my independence is having to ask someone to tie up my hair. I'm going to cut it off.

The atrium of the social services building felt a bit like an airport.

43. Will You Be Like This Forever?

I got used to sleeping in a shared room pretty quickly. One other patient who snored VERY loudly came and went.  I found it very taxing when other patients in our bay were watching the TV (or falling asleep watching it) when it was time to sleep. It was even worse when the program was hospital releated. Everyone was put in bed by 7-8pm, and the final drugs round was at 9:30-10pm. I used to read or listen to music during that time, but I did want to sleep. Getting it dark was a constant battle. It was a struggle trying to suggest calmly that it could be dark now, whilst trying not to sound like the Warden from Dad's Army. I had a string of fairy lights dad always used to turn on in the evening, which I would then ask to be turned off later on. One nurse was particularly thrilled by them, and I woke up on Christmas morning to the lights glowing above me.

There was one night nurse who used to turn on the main light to do her early morning medication (as opposed to using bed top lights). It was probably the only time I snapped at anyone during my whole time in the hospital. We quickly developed a banter. She took her role of watching over us a little too seriously, in my opinion. Maybe she shared a spiritual connection to Florence Nightingale. It was poetic justice when she asked one of these other patients what she could do for her, and she said "turn off the lights." I just showed her my favourite Donald Trump videos, to express how I felt.

I started camping out (metaphor) in the corridor, next to the nurse's station and in front of the therapists' office. This was the one place devoid of screens. The TV in my bay was some patients' only form of entertainment. Yes, we had a dayroom, but no one sat there except one patient, who used to sit in there watching The Jeremy Kyle Show. No thank you. My spot in the corridor was rather central, and meant I would be tortured by the staff's often slow responses to the doorbell being rung. (There was limited access to the ward because brain injury = confusion or denial = tendancy for patients to try and run away.) However, as the ward's sentinel, I was right in the thick of it (that makes it sound busy. It mostly wasn't). Yes, for the most part it meant watching staff run around answering buzzers or writing notes, but it meant I was likely at least to be talked to. I got to know all the professionals I would never have met in my bay.

During the Christmas holidays, lots of my family came to visit, including a fair few of my under-10-year-old cousins. The boys loved having a go at my micro-stimulator. This was a machine with 2 electrode pads you put on your arm to make your wrist flex. It sends an electric current through the nerves and stimulates them to move the muscle. Kind of like making it remember how to move? This doesn't have any instant effect, but it is good to do regularly over time. Anyway, it was the kind of tool you wouldn't give a small boy. Of course, that's what we did, and my cousins could see how strange it is to watch your hand flick up in a small salute. It feels like an electric wire without the shock at the end. I think it amused dad more than anyone.

2 girls visited who competed over getting to push the wheelchair. They got to take it in turns pushing to the canteen and back, navigating some of the corridors' slopes. Talk about This Girl Can. They were barely taller than the wheelchair. Some of my cousins were quite shy, in such a clinical environment, and me being so physically changed. These girls were not, chatting away and drawing me pictures. One did go all shy for a bit, then whispered to her mum, who got her to whisper it to me.  She asked, "Will you be like this forever?" Well, not if I can help it.

We also had a Christmas raffle. I think every ward has one. It's the only way they can buy 'luxuries' for the ward. One of the prizes was a giant child-sized teddy bear. A nurse's son had brought it home from school as a prize. She had taken one look and promptly donated it to the ward raffle. Everyone was very divided over whether they wanted to win the bear or not. It made the raffle a kind of Russian Roulette. I was Team Bear. I didn't actually want it; I just found the idea of it quite amusing. In the end, Kerri, (suitably dismayed), won the bear. You know what? I won 1st prize.

That was my present to the parents sorted.

42. Configuring Updates

We've decided to buy an electric wheelchair. You can get ones which fold closed for about £1,000. They don't look the sturdiest of things, but I don't need it for life-long comfort and reliability.  I just need it to get me places, and to fit in the car. My Disabled Student Allowance has got me a laptop, which arrived this week. Simone, the speech therapist, has also sent off an application for a SaeboGlove, via a Stroke Association Rehab grant. This glove will act like a splint, stretching out my fingers and supporting my thumb, which will enable me to grasp objects. We both individually chatted to the lovely lady in charge of ordering the grants, as we did not know what to put for my finances or bills. My student loan was cancelled for this year, but I'm living in residential rehabilitation, all bills paid. She told me what to put, then said the grants are approved by a panel. After that, she can order it straight away, so it could take up to 2 weeks.

I also had repeat Botox injections, back in the ward opposite the neuro rehab ward. My neurologist runs the Clinic. I had my appointment with her on Monday, then the Botox on Tuesday. Nathaniel, the physio, gave the injection with her. Dee, my current physio, came with me, and was impressed when I reminisced with Nathaniel how it was only this November that I couldn't even lift my head up independently. We debated the issuse of Botox in my hand. I'm well aware of the risk, that the fingers could become too relaxed for functionality. I'm hoping having the SaeboGlove will help counteract that. Botox takes about 10-15 days to kick in anyway, so I won't know for a few days yet.

I also said hello to Rachel, Sarah, Kerri and Alison (one of the other physios). Rachel did some walking with me in the ward, and could see the progress I've made. I also finally arranged to meet again with Marilyn, my intensive care nurse. She hasn't seen me since October, when I was unable to talk, just about able to wave, and had to lie flat on my back all the time. It was a very joyous reunion, me standing to hug her. She and Dee could both talk about me in Shona (they're both Zimbabwean). It sounded jokingly desparing.

I went swimming with Dee and my mum, so my mum can take me swimming in the future (Dee showed her the moves). She also showed my dad how to climb the stairs with me. Now my dad and I have been able to walk down the stairs, along the corridor to the gym using my walking frame, do a gym session and do the same thing on the way back. We also have a new physio assistant, so Dee has been teaching her how to use the treadmill with me. Dee's going on holiday next week, so needs everyone to be ok in her absence.

In my washing and dressing sessions with Becca, I've become virtually independent. Maintenance put in grab-rails for me on the wetroom walls, so I've been walking around the room, standing for the shower, and walking around to sit on the toilet to get dressed. No commode. I even tried to make my own bed. Becca had nothing to do, so amused herself reading a poetry book off my shelf. When at home, I can toilet myself and dress myself sitting on the toilet fine. We don't have a downstairs shower, but I can just wash. I've also been taking the opportunity, when at home, to practise walking with mum and dad. We walked the other day in the Leicesteter botanical gardens. I offered the wheelchair to my Granny. It was a bit big for her, and she found self-propelling harder than it looks.

Good effort.

41. The National Elf Service

Then Christmas was here. I was still transferred around using the hoist, so I couldn't go home for the holiday. We couldn't all be like Dean, who could go home at the weekends. At least I had reached normal diet stage so I could eat whatever I wanted at least. By that point, I'd started banging on about how I wanted to dress up as an elf for Christmas. I didn't expect anything. It wasn't a children's hospital, so there was no tradition of fancy dress or anything. Bit of a harder costume to make than my ghost-sheet at Halloween. However, a health care assistant called Amy ordered me a suit off eBay. Someone else supplied me with tacky decorations for my bed space.

On Christmas Eve, the night nurse had fairy lights bedecking her drugs trolley, and was wearing a Santa hat. I wanted to stay up late, so thought I'd drink a coffee. She told me the ward only had decaf, so there went that plan. Early Christmas morning, the night staff got me washed and dressed in my costume, and hoisted me into my wheelchair. By the time it was the night shifts' handover to the day staff, I was seated by the nurses' station next to our giant ward snowman, ringing a handbell and yelling (quietly) "IT'S CHRISTMAS!" I was trying to sing along to a Christmas playlist, whilst the night nurse attempted to dance with me. All I can say is, we looked like we'd had a bit too much fun with the drugs trolley that night.

I was tasked with being the Santa's Little Helper that I was, and hand out everyone's presents at breakfast. Of course, I needed to wee just as they wanted me, which meant being hoisted onto bed and using a bedpan. It looked ridiculous; I was wearing red and green stripey tights. When I was ready, I helped give out the presents. Every patient gets given a generic gift bag, 'men's' or 'women's', from a hospital charity that gives every inpatient a present at Christmas. One of the deputy sisters had also been saving up the thank you chocolate boxes from satisfied ex-patients, to give to the staff at Christmas. I had presents from family and friends as well which I had insisted on putting under the ward's fake Christmas tree. (The staff discouraged this in case one of the more confused patients helped themselves.)

In the morning, someone fetched me to go to the chapel. Chapel was held once a month. There were about 5 volunteers, and 1 or 2 (very elderly) inpatients. The patients were always different each month. I went about 4 times, so the chaplaincy actually got to know me a bit. I didn't have much to do with them normally; the chaplain visited me every so often but I never kept him talking long. That Christmas day, I was the only one sat in the chapel, for a long time, in my elf costume, with just the chaplain playing the keyboard. The chapel was multi-faith and looked decidedly un-christmassy (okay, I think they had a little tree).

Mum, dad, Joanna and aunt Ruth joined me, and I think 3 other patients were bought along by volunteers. The service was Church of England, but with a mixed denomination style, and quite informal. At one point, the chaplain tweeted the service. I did sing along very quietly and in a monotone. It was a bit embarrassing trying to find the page in my hymn book as I almost dropped the book each time, and everyone would notice. They also noticed my laughing outburst when Mum, Dad and Ruth promptly stood up for the hymns (well trained), only to be told they don't stand up here as the patients can't. (I burst into giggles another week just remembering this mid-hymn, which again rather drew attention.)

The 5 of us had a Christmas lunch/picnic (risotto) in the canteen. We skyped my other aunt and family in America, which was their first time seeing me, since they couldn't physically come over. I also went on a tour of my ex-wards, back to the Brain Injury Unit and the Intensive Care Unit, giving out chocolates. This trip featured a lot of hospital art, where staff had clearly got creative with medicine pots, and plastic gloves, and bedpans. I saw several cardboard rudolphs and paper snowmen.

My cousins Emma and Sarah came in the afternoon and we played Christmassy games. I felt bad for the other elderly inpatients whose families didn't sound like they were having as much fun as we were. I had a Mexican student friend message me to say she was in Leicester and could she come to visit me? I said yes, but didn't realise she meant there and then, so she joined us. My family all left me to go home and have their Christmas dinner, and I had a hospital sandwich (so the caterers could have a holiday). I proudly wore my costume the whole day long.

(I'm sorry about the groan-worthy pun of a title. If you can think of any better ones please comment below.)

Chapel Elf.

Interlude pt 2. The Haemorrhage

I've just been to visit Adam, and his girlfriend Ellie, in Oxford. They told me more about that day on September 22nd when Adam called the ambulance for me. Ellie had just left our student house in Sheffield to catch a bus to Reading (I heard her leaving). Adam rang her and she came back, and they got the bus and taxi to A and E. My friend Cameron joined them. The doctors wouldn't tell them anything about me because they weren't my family. Adam got my mum's number, via another friend of mine, and they finally told him something. Joanna picked up the phone, and I've asked her to write her experience below.

••••••••

This is my sister Joanna's account.

I woke up on the 22nd of September, with all my stuff packed ready to start University, although somehow it just didn't feel like it was going to happen. My mum and I loaded the car and set off for London. 20 minutes drive away from the University, we realised we were going to be late to the welcome talk. Mum planned to drop me off and then find a place to park, but before we got any closer my phone rang. It was Elizabeth's friend Adam. He told me, in a very serious voice, that he'd found Liz unconscious on the floor in her room. He said he'd called an ambulance and she was now in hospital, also that she was still breathing. I wondered for a second if this could be a prank call. He said he'd been trying to get hold of us for ages, and that the hospital staff could only speak to family about Elizabeth's condition. Feeling sick, but a bit like it was all a dream, I turned to Mum in the driver's seat and told her what Adam had said. We pulled into the next hard shoulder and a doctor spoke to Mum on the phone. My mum then told me Elizabeth had had a brain haemorrhage that morning, and I got the message that she was unlikely to survive. They also said we must turn around immediately and go to the hospital. Afer relaying this information, Mum asked if I wanted her to drive me the last bit to University and drop me off. I said no. Then I said a prayer out loud for Liz and we did a 'U turn' on the M1 and headed to Sheffield.

"Not a brain haemorrhage... This is what happened to Grandad, this is really bad Joanna." This is something I recall Mum saying. Her Dad died of a brain haemorrhage. I knew all of this of course but I still did a google search to find out any extra information I could. I learnt how to spell 'haemorrhage' pretty quickly. The world had stopped, yet neither of us cried or spoke
much, it didn't feel that real. I felt God with me and His peace, very real, though. I felt like He was sitting opposite me, face to face.

As Mum drove, I made phone calls to family members. First, of course, I rang my Dad, but there was no reply, as he was away in Somerset for the weekend, on a walk, with no reception. We decided to ring Mum's sister Ruth next, and ask her to go straight to Liz, so she'd have someone with her sooner, as she was nearer to Sheffield than us, and our journey would take a few more hours still. Mum got out of the car to get petrol and I rang Ruth. The moment I told her the situation, I heard her burst into tears on the other end of the phone, and I cried too for the first time. She said of course she'd go to meet Liz.

Then it was calls to the wider family, repeating the story over and over again, asking them to pray for Elizabeth and hearing the different exclamations as the news hit each person, whilst Mum drove on, silently. I kept ringing Dad at half hour intervals, but still no answer. I rang my University, told them why I hadn't enrolled, and found out I had another few weeks until the enrolement deadline. After a while, we stopped at a service station. The song 'Somewhere only we know' was playing. As I walked out, I heard the line 'this could be the end of everything'. It certainly felt that way.

Kind friends of ours offered to meet us at a service station to drive us the rest of the way, but we missed the turning, so Mum decided to stick it out and keep going. Back on the motorway, Mum finally cried. I suggested we pull over, but she wanted to carry on, so all I could do was put my hand on her shoulder, in an attempt to comfort her. It broke my heart to see my Mum sobbing over the steering wheel.

Finally, we got to speak on the phone to Dad. His sister had got through to the son of his godfather who he was walking with, and he told his Dad, who told my Dad. I was very worried about whether or not he would be okay driving alone from Somerset to Sheffield. I can't remember exactly what was said when we spoke at last, although there was one part of that phone call I will never forget. We were anticipating that we might be asked whether or not Elizabeth should receive brain surgery. What if surgery was the only way to save her life? On the other hand, what if the surgery went wrong and she was sent into a Permanent Vegetative State, then would she be kept alive on a life support machine indefinitely or could the machine be turned off? We decided no brain surgery. At this point we didn't know the haemorrhage wasn't in a part that could be given surgery.

Approaching Sheffield, Mum's phone satnav started to play up, and we were sent in different directions around the city in search for the Northern General Hospital, where Liz was for the first day before she was transferred to the Royal Hallamshire hospital.

At last, we arrived, and we met my cousin Sarah near the hospital entrance. We went through to the room where Elizabeth was. Aunt Ruth was there and cousin Emma.
Elizabeth was lying in the hospital bed, sedated, with tubes coming out of her face and all over her body. She looked peaceful. The tubes didn't seem that weird to me, it was just Elizabeth, and she didn't even look ill, infact her skin looked brighter and healthier than mine (probably due to her tan). The nurse with us was very friendly and upbeat and that helped a lot.

A friend travelled with Dad from Somerset, and once they arrived in Sheffield, he got a stranger to drive ahead of Dad, to lead him to the hospital. When Dad arrived he cried, and cried. Next I made a list of the people closest to Elizabeth and sent messages, asking for them to pray. We were told that the staff didn't know what would happen to Elizbeth, and we would just have to see how she did over the night, whether or not she'd wake up.

When we were instructed to go to bed, I asked if I could stay with Elizabeth through the night. The answer from the nurse was no, and it was the same each time I suggested the idea.

Unfortunatelyf for us, the Arctic Monkeys were playing that evening in Sheffield, and so all hotel rooms were fully booked. Ruth, Emma and Sarah stayed the night in the visitor's waiting room. Mum, Dad and I were offered the only available hospital guest room. So I left Elizabeth, aware that this might be the last time I saw her, alive. We went out to the car and took clothes, pyjamas and toiletries from my Uni things, and shared them out between the family. Mum likes to point out that 'we were all wearing Joanna's pants!'

My friend Evie sent me a Bible verse. She hadn't known it, but this happened to be the one I find the most encouarging, "The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged." Mum and Dad have told me they stayed awake most of the night, but after reading that verse, miraculously, I fell asleep.

••••••••

This is my aunt Ruth's account.

It was unusual for me to be at home with nothing planned at midday on Saturday.  That changed with a text from my sister, Margaret, saying they had really bad news about Elizabeth.  I called her immediately and spoke with Joanna as Margaret was driving the car. She explained that they would like me to drive to Sheffield to be with Elizabeth in hospital, as I was further north than they were and would be able to get there sooner than them.  I knew the importance of somebody getting there to be with her as soon as possible.  It was almost unbelievable to hear them say that the chances of Elizabeth surviving a bleed on her brain were alarmingly slim.  I immediately got ready, and began pleading with God to let her live.

I was struck by the control and calmness of Joanna's voice, knowing what she was facing and there were no words to express the emotion, but I remember saying, 'she can't die, not now'.  I thought of them driving north behind me, as I drove as fast as I could, without stopping. For me, every minute counted and I prayed for much of it, and wondered how they were coping with further to go. I had called some people and asked them to pray and I had also spoken with Liz's cousins, Emma and Sarah, who were making their way to Sheffield too. I imagined all of us converging on the hospital from our separate directions.

At the hospital, everything seemed closed for the weekend and there was nobody around to ask where to go or where to park. I tried to work this out, not wanting to waste any time at all, parked in an empty car park and set off to look for the right department. I later learnt that the hospital covers a huge area and was glad that I had parked fairly near where Elizabeth was.  When I found the ITU, again there was nobody around, but automatic doors let me into reception and from there I could press a buzzer to gain entry.

From start to finish, the staff lived up to their CQC outstanding rating. They were clearly right on it, were very attentive and so I called Margaret and Joanna to let them know that Elizabeth was getting the very best care. I described to them what I saw and what the medical team had said and done so far. The team had explained what had happened since Liz arrived and that they'd taken over control of Liz's functions and wired her up to machines, to allow her body to cope with the bleed, but would slowly bring her off the machines the following day to see if she would survive the bleed. At this point I didn’t know Andrew wasn't with Margaret and Joanna and that he’d been uncontactable for a while.

The staff did not raise any hopes for Liz's survival and explained sensitively the seriousness of the bleed.  They made it clear that if Liz made it through waking up the following day it would be against the odds. However, they were very respectful of her being in ear shot and tried not to make it sound hopeless as we were all aware that she might be able to hear. I read the Bible, prayed over Liz, talked with staff and also Liz. I described to staff Liz's character, so they had an idea of the person they were treating. The rest of the family arrived bit by bit, and some family friends helped out giving lifts, and bringing food. Many people were already praying and letting us know so, in support. I found it reassuring, too, that Liz seemed to have a great medical team around her who knew exactly what they were doing and inspired confidence. They even helped us with arrangements for the night. The Arctic Monkeys were playing in Sheffield that evening and all accommodation seemed booked up in the city, so we were allowed to camp out in a couple of rooms there in the hospital. The staff gave us a supply of tea, coffee and milk as there were no places open, no vending machines and no shops nearby to buy drinks.  

There were lots of people sending texts and we were feeling the anxiety of what would happen the next day when they were going to wake Liz up from the induced coma, but we did get some sleep and it was great to be together as a family.

••••••••

Tomorrow I have my outpatient appointment back at the hospital. No idea how much of a definitive thing it will be.