49. You Can't Sit With Us

Now I could use a commode, I could start having showers everyday. (I used to be bed washed, and hoisted into a shower chair occasionally.) Initially, someone had to help me in the shower, but soon I could just be left to it. The same as in the toilets, I had to pull the red buzzer string when I was done. It was the same red cord that you get in disabled loos. I've always wanted to pull that. From 8:00am, staff had to get all the patients breakfasted and do a drugs round, then washed. Physios started visiting whoever was ready at 9:00am. The night staff used help out the day staff by getting a few people washed from 6:00am onwards, by lucky dip.

To beat the shower queues, I usually was the sole eager volunteer, and was always ready for breakfast. Breakfast was served by the housekeepers in the dayroom. I didn't really like joining all the other patients all rumpled in my pyjamas, so liked being made ready early. It was the same routine every morning. Start of shift, do the observations (blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, "are you in any pain?"). I said to one nurse as he gave me the same medication yet again how boring it must be. He agreed with me. I wrote a poem about it called 'Toast and Drugs'.

I started to get a few problems which needed addressing. My shoulder became quite weak as the weight of my arm pulled the ball of the bone a bit out of the socket (subluxed), so I was given a shoulder brace. Lindsay took me to an occupational therapy workshop (looked like a wood tech classroom) to make me a hand splint, to keep my fingers stretched out, and my wrist in a neutral position. (When asked what colour velcro straps I wanted, I chose all the colours.) My ankle started swelling because of gravity and the lack of pressure being put on it, so I was prescribed TEDs  (compression stockings). I definitely felt a bit held together.

I went with Lindsay to get properly measured for a wheelchair, and then Hermes  arrived! The NHS has a contract with a company to buy every patient a wheelchair. The therapists said going to an appointment was a great idea, because it was the best chair they'd had. It was done to my specific measurements as I found the standard ones the hospital had too short for me. I started taking trips out to the cinema, a friend's house for lunch, home from the weekend. We'd put a grab-rail in our downstairs toilet. I started my routine of going home for the weekends, and having therapy during the week.

Then one day, it was ruled I couldn't sit in my spot in the corridor. Positioned in-between the nurses'station and therapists' office, I could overhear too much confidential information. Someone moved me, and I burst into tears. Besides crying in pain those first few weeks in intensive care, I'd never felt the urge to cry in the hospital. In this very public ward, I didn't want to cry in my bay in front of the 3 other patients there. (Well, I didn't want to cry anywhere.) Not knowing where to go, I just stayed in the doorway of the bay, very visibly crying my eyes out in front of everyone. No one could tell what was wrong; I certainly didn't have the coherence the tell them. It was a busy morning. I could hear randomly passing admin staff helpfully whisper "she's crying!" I was hiding behind tissues, not knowing what to do.

It was a vicious circle, as I cried in embarrassment that everyone could see me, and then were being kind to me, which made me cry more. I felt a bit betrayed by the poor management of this decision, that I hadn't been given any prior warning. I also felt helpless because they were right; I did overhear things I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't sit there, but the alternative was to sit by my bed all day in silence, with the TV driving me mad. We didn't chat much in my bay. We were all completely different ages, with nothing in common. It also felt very unfair because I overheard confidential information in the bay too, when the doctor did a ward round, and staff chat about issues. Not to mention knowing everyone's embarrassing toileting information.

After a good half an hour, by which point I'd moved onto sobbing into a towel, Rachel came and took me to the retreat room. Maybe it went on for so long as it was my first big cry. I hadn't realised I loved interacting with the staff, being greeted and talked to throughout the day. It was all I had to feel welcome in the ward. Yes, I had loads of great visitors, and my family came every evening, but I liked the staff, and liked getting to know them. I worked out with the nursing team that I could sit out in the afternoons, when it was a bit quieter. However, I couldn't forget that lurching feeling, when the patient / professional divide gaped beneath me.

I decided to dress up as a 'love banana' on Valentine's Day. Why not?