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.