Tag Archives: doctor

One Year

27 Nov

Its been more than a year since I wrote.

In a year, a lot has changed.

And not for the better.

Last October my relationship of 4.5 years ended.

I moved 300km back to the city to live with my mum, who became my carer again.

I tried to do some volunteer work. They overworked me to the point of collapse, even though they knew I was ill, even though I asked for help. Then informed me I was incompetent and useless.

My best friend of five years was the lead contributor of the insults.

I have spent the last six months, mostly in hospital. My medications have been changed, and changed, and changed again. The pain is agonising. Many times I have thought, ‘I cannot do this any more, I cannot live like this any more’. Screaming. I CANNOT DO THIS ANY MORE

I wake up in the worst pain you could possibly imagine. Its so bad that I want to die, just to make it stop. Mum gives me an injection, another injection. The vomiting slows but the pain is terrible. I try to keep painkillers down, but in the end they are not strong enough. But still we wait, an hour, the slowest hour of your life, just to make sure.

Then we call the ambulance.

They scrape me off the bathroom floor, naked. I am too weak to sit, to dry myself, to move. All I can do it moan. I hold the screams inside, because I know they will worry my mum even more. I am carried to my bedroom, swathed in towels. I am slowly dressed by others. I cannot help. They give me IN Fentanyl. They try to put a drip in, but after four attempts they give up on trying to find a vein. They give me an injection. They are telling me its ok. But its not ok.

They bring in the stretcher, strap me in tight. Wheel me out to the car. School has just finished. Children are talking and laughing as they walk passed the house. An ambulance! How exciting! I wonder if my nosy neighbour has noticed. More Fentanyl. They want to take me to Swan’s, but I need to go to Royal, as that’s where my gastro team is. Royal is ‘ramping’. This means other people in ambulances are still waiting for beds. There is a fire along the way, traffic is blocked. No one lets the ambulance through, even though its the law. Eventually we turn around, and go another way. Every 5 minutes, more Fentanyl.

We arrive and there are seven other stretchers in the room. I know it will be a long wait, but I’m so glad that the paramedics can continue to give me Fentanyl IN until I get taken in.
Sometimes the paramedics will sit with you, and chat. Other times they ignore you, and you are begging them to come back with the drugs. Please, help me.

After two hours, I get a bed. They finally get a cannula in, but they don’t use it.

‘We have to wait for the Chronic Pain Team to decide on your medication.’

The pain team is another ninety minutes. Ninety minutes without Fentanyl. The pain soon becomes unbearable again, I am writhing in pain on the bed. No one can do anything. The pain team arrives, and they give me Paracetamol. Yes. Paracetamol. I have taken Buprenorphine and Tramadol together at home, with no result, and they think paracetamol will solve the problem.

They at least give me another pain patch. My last one ran out five days ago, and I haven’t been well enough to get to the doctors for more. And with that, they tell me I am being discharged. My pain levels are still through the roof. I ask them why I am being discharged.

‘We don’t want you to be dependent on the hospital for help.’

Oh, I’m sorry, here was me, thinking that that’s what you are there for!

Do they really think I want to come in to hospital?

So I get a taxi home. Mum is upset that they released me, but there’s nothing I can do. Four hours later, we have to call another ambulance.

So anyway, that’s currently my life. I don’t go out except to doctors appointments and hospital trips. I am barely able to get out of bed most days. But when I can, I like to make cards for the people who are dear to me. And from now on, since I don’t have anything positive to say about my health, I’m going to be posting my card designs as they are made.

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I Need Help.

14 Oct

Independence is mighty important to me. As much as I love my mum, she’s incredibly difficult to live with and its almost relaxing to be away from that stress.

But at the same time, this is the woman who has showered me and wiped me after I’ve been to the toilet when I’m unable. I have always felt uncomfortable exposing my body even to myself, and she would stare at the walls while chattering away to fill the silence I left.

I would sit, slumped in the chair, as she lifted my right arm to wash the armpit and spoke about her own siblings.

Even after I moved out of home, she would come to the hospital everyday with fresh flowers from her own garden, more things I ‘might need’ and tidy up the area around me.

She wiped the vomit from my lips, replaced the bag yet again.

She’d hang clothes in the cupboard I could not reach, wash the sweat from my hair and then gently comb it out, and work it into a gentle braid so I wouldn’t vomit in it.

She would go and pay so that I could watch TV in my bed, even though I insisted I didn’t need it.

She would take me for a walk around the hospital grounds in the wheelchair, and then later, hold me up as I clung to her, taking those first steps again, rebuilding wasted muscles.

She would carefully lift the fork to my lips, and then polish off the rest of the meal I couldn’t face.

She would wait until the drugs kicked in, longing to see my wrought body relax, and scream for the doctor when instead of stopping me from vomiting, they coaxed me into a seizure.

Once she even managed to arrange to bring my dog in for a visit.

She would give me words of comfort on the long drive home after yet another specialist appointment. Another cream of the crop, top of his class doctor, who had gently smiled at me as he explained the treatment was not working, he didn’t know what to do. Maybe I should see someone else.

She would follow the ambulance in her little white car.

She would run red lights at night in the city, so we would get to the hospital a little quicker.

She would fight my battles for me, for I could not defend myself.

Now is different.

Now, I live 300km away from her. She cannot just hop into her little white car to come visit me for an hour, just to bathe me. Instead, that ball falls into R‘s court.

Now he is the one to double check all the medicine, to make sure I won’t have a bad reaction.
He is the one who brushes out my hair, and tries to get me to giggle through the pain.

He is the one who confronts the nurses when I’ve been in too much pain for too long, and they need to do something else, now.

He is the one to say, Enough is enough, we are going to the hospital.

He is the one who goes to the shops to get groceries because I haven’t been able to leave the house in six days.

He is the one who drives us to the park and back, because I love seeing the girls run around in the sun.

He is the one who changes the sheets in the middle of the night, and organises dinner when I cannot get out of bed.

He is not ashamed to push me around in a wheelchair.

He fights my battles for me.

But he cannot do everything, and I don’t want him to do everything.

He comes home from work, and I don’t want to ask him to clean the shower, mop the floor, get rid of the cobwebs. And sometimes, sometimes, I don’t need him to. But its been a long time now since he’s had a day off.

I spoke to my sister, and since my birthday is next week, she sent me some money. I’m going to have someone come in a few hours a week, to help me cope.

I don’t want to be ‘wasting’ money on something I ‘could’ do myself.

Coming to terms with the fact that I do need that help is hard. It reinforces to me the label ‘DISABLED’. I do not want to think of myself as disabled.

Nine years into this fight, and deep down I still believe that someday, things are going to improve, that I will be able to live a relatively normal life.

Or maybe I’m just starting to confuse belief with hope.

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Hospital Adventures.. 3?

22 Aug

“Get off the floor.”
She demands.

As though Its that simple.

As though I could simply will my body to move at this point.

*

I am fifteen.
My mother had half carried me into the emergency department.

Triage- Blue Seats Only

I stumble to the blue chairs, leaning on anything I can find on my way.

Coke  machine, green chair, stumble green chair, table green chair stumble finally blue chair

I close my eyes and wait, and feel my mum try to take the vomit bag from me.
She still hasn’t learned that I need a new one before she can take the old one.
I cannot be without a bag for even a minute.
People sitting near to me move out of the way,
they do not want to catch what I have, grateful they aren’t dealing with It.

Little do they know, It is not contagious.
It cannot be caught and It cannot be fixed.
It can not be served a restraining order,
nor jailed for breaching said restraining order.
It cannot be gained by worst wishes, It cannot be removed by prayer.
It cannot be removed by scalpels, tweezers, poisons.
It just comes and goes as It pleases, leaving debris in Its wake.

*

The man currently talking to the triage nurse appeared to have a badly swollen ankle.
He speaks very loudly; he is drunk.
“Yeah well see, I, I was just going out for a piss an’ I fell ovvv, over the garden wall.”
He slurs.
The nurse walks from behind the wall to examine his ankle,
removing the makeshift bandage to reveal a scabbed over wound.
“When was this, sir?”
“Oh, that.”
He sniffs the air and then looks at his ankle as though he’s never seen it before.
“Yeah, no, I did that the other week. But now it really hurts, hey.
You need to do something to make it better.”

If I could, I would shake my head.
How dare you take up space in the emergency room at this time of night,
for something you should have had taken care of earlier.
Could have had taken care of earlier.
And now I have to wait for you.

I count to twenty.
I count to twenty in French.
I repeat. I try to think of anything but my body.
But I cannot keep It away.
It rises again and I manage to lift the bag to my mouth with the help of my mum.
I sweat again, I shiver and shake.
I lean all of my weight into the hard plastic seat.
Please just take me away from all of this.

The drunken man is told to go wait along with everyone else in the room.
The nurse spends a further five minutes on paperwork before addressing the three of us.
In that five minutes, my mother and I have remained silent.
Only It had screamed.
It had waved hysterically and shouted in the faces of all those avoiding possible eye contact.
It had splattered the inside of the clean plastic, no longer white and pure.
The nurse looks at us disdainfully, beckoning us to move forward.
My mother lifts me from one seat to another.
She begins by explaining medical conditions, mouthfuls she quickly rolls off her tongue.
She lists medications and dosages.
Name drops doctors and specialists we visit.
She tells the nurse I have been unable to sip water for 14 hours now.
She tells the nurse she’s concerned about my heart rate again.
She tells the nurse I cannot lift my head any more.
She tells the nurse everything.
But the nurse doesn’t even lift her finger toward a pen or the keyboard.
She is not worried.

“What’s your name?”
She is asking It and I. But we cannot speak. We don’t even dare try.
The very last of our energy is being used to sit somewhat upright.
It commands my full attention once again, mother repeats her bag with the routine.
She and the nurse talk, but I cannot hear words,
only buzzing over the sound of my heart beating far too quickly.
The nurse tells us to go wait with the rest of the crowd.
She does not offer any assistance, just watches on.
Mother tells me to count to three, on three sweetie.
She lifts me out of the chair and manages to drag me across the room.
As soon as we sit, she must reach up again to catch It’s latest mess.

And so we wait. I manage to sit for another ten minutes.
Ten minutes of agony, ten minutes of forcing an exhausted body upright.
Finally, I realise I cannot do it any more.
The people around me stare as I slowly slide down to the floor,
rest my head on my right arm,
left arm clutching the bag over my mouth in preparation.
My body rests. We rest together but only for a moment,
before It rises again from Its dark cave, rearing Its ugly head,
throwing Its flames with great force,
demonstrating Its power to all the villagers below.

And that’s when she notices.

She rises from behind her desk at great speed, a woman enraged.

“Get off the floor.”
She demands.
“You cannot be lying on the floor,”
“You cannot be laying on the floor,”
I mentally correct her,
as my mother begins to wage the battle on my behalf.
But still, she only speaks to me, voice getting louder and louder.
“Get OFF the floor. You are not allowed to lie on the floor!”
My mother finally rises from her seat,
putting aside the flannel she had been using the wipe my face dry.
“How dare you yell at my daughter while she is in this condition.
She cannot physically get off the floor. If she could, she would.
Do you think she wants to be laying on your dirty floor? No!
She needs a bed, and she needs medical attention, which is why we are here.”
The nurse stares at my mum, and walks back behind the safety of the door.

Three minutes later, I am in the examination room.
They brought out a wheelchair for me so I didn’t have to ‘walk’.
I do my best to whisper a few answers before the doctor stops asking questions.
He prods and pokes. I vomit and sweat.
He checks my eyes with his torch and I wince from the light.
He listens to my heart and he worries. I vomit and sweat.
He tells me he will be right back.
He is calling out that he needs a bed, “Clear a bed!”
I am lifted onto a bed with wheels. I am wheeled into the Emergency Room.
I see the woman who has been kicked out of her bed, she is sitting in a wheelchair in the isle.
She is having no trouble sitting.
I do not even feel bad.
I only feel relieved. I’m here, I made it here.

It can only get better from here.

Country ER

20 May

Roland pulls up into the disabled bay- country hospitals are often so quiet, a blessing. I will myself to get to my feet and out of the car. I stumble up the ramp and Roland supports me to make sure I don’t fall. I am folded over the vomit bag, waiting for the next flip. He gets the door open for me and picks up the phone- this is the way you enter the ER in a country hospital. “Adult female, not doing so well.”

I sit down on the chair nearby to rest, but I only have to get up again a minute later when the door is opened. The lady tries to hurry me as I struggle to stand but I ignore her; I will get there in my own time. I finally get through the door and am told to lay on the bed. They start asking questions that I cannot answer, the pain is too great and I’m trying not to vomit. Roland starts by listing my medical conditions, allergies, and ends up doing all of the talking for me. Suddenly, I cannot hold it in anymore. My insides heave and I bring the bag over my mouth just in time. An orderly steps in with a fresh bag, I whisper a request for a tissue to wipe my mouth. Roland ends up finding a box for me and placing it near my head- he knows he needs to stay out of the way.

 

The doctor commands me to lie on my back. I am worried about how I will vomit into the bag from my back but I must obey her- She is my saviour, I am her warrior; ready to jump as soon as she demands it. She pulls up my soaked shirt and surveys my bloated stomach quickly before she starts prodding and poking. “Tell me where it hurts,” she says briskly. I shake my head as she begins on the right hand side of my abdomen, once, twice, three times. “No appendicitis,” she barks to the nurse closest, who is making notes. I am thinking, “Of course not, I would have mentioned it if the pain was any different.”

She then starts on the left side, at the top. I shake my head. She moves down and pushes, and I almost scream from the pain. My whole body thrusts into the air against her arms. “Bowel,” she says. The nurse makes a note, and she tries the next spot; its tender that’s for sure, but not agonising. Then she tests the previous spot again- I bite back a scream and will my body to be still on this table they call a bed. My body shudders and a small cry emerges from the back of my throat.

I turn my head to the right and violently wretch into the plastic bag, trying to clear the back of my throat from the dinner I ate 6 hours ago, completely undigested. The orderly makes an attempt to wipe my mouth as he replaces the bag with a fresh one, with no vomit smell, just new, clean plastic.

 

Now that she has established for herself that my condition is the same as it has been every time I’ve been admitted to this hospital, she can get to work- after all, in the past, their plan of attack had been quite successful. I must continue to lie on my back, but all my instincts tell me to curl up in a ball on my side. She straightens my arm as the needle cart is brought over and sets about finding the vein and cleaning the site. I am in too much pain, the words are a blur, but I understand that she is struggling to find the vein. Roland explains that my veins are traumatised from cannulisation, and she tsks to herself. I am not paying attention to her, but the next time I go to vomit she tells me off for not staying perfectly still. I wonder how that would be possible, without choking on the vomit, as she snaps my arm back into place and studies the skin before carefully inserting the needle and plastic. I don’t even feel it. After a little while she names it a success, and sets about securing the site so that I won’t accidentally pull it out.

Now I am finally allowed to lie on my side, this I know. I am relieved, and relief comes with another round of vomit. She tells me to roll over onto my side, I already have. It is much easier to clear the vomit from my mouth from my side. She ponders injection sites, and decides this time it will be my lower back. “Little pinch,” she says, and I feel nothing. I continue to wretch, the same orderly kindly continues to wipe my lips and change the bag. She lines up the next one, “Little pinch.” I feel nothing. She lines up the third injection as a huge swell of nausea overcomes me. I begin to vomit as she sticks in the needle, she forgot to warn me this time. I feel it. She swears at me for moving as I choke out chunks of food and bile into a bag I cannot even hold myself. Can’t she understand that I am trying not to vomit on the bed, in my hair?

Roland is wondering if he can leave now- its around 1am, and he went to sleep hours ago. I had tried to settle the pain and suffer through it on my own but it had continuously worsened until I got desperate enough to wake him. I tell him I am scared, please don’t leave me. “What’s there to be scared about?” The nurse grunts. A lone tear slides across the cheek that is pressed against the pillow, and only the orderly sees it. Roland stays.

Everything begins to blur but I am so exhausted that I don’t even realise. The setting has changed, I’m in a new room, Roland is gone and they are asking me if I can climb onto the ward bed. I do a slow groggy mix between a crawl and a shuffle, and then I am on the bed. Its much wider, much softer. I am so grateful to realise that the pain has seriously lessened, and that I don’t need to throw up right in that moment. My body begins to shiver from the cold, I cannot stop it. A nurse orders some fresh pyjamas for me, and very quickly the other nurse returns with a deep pink winter nightgown. The orderly is turning up the heat in the room for me as I am the only patient in the ward, but respectfully turns and leaves the immediate area when the two nurses begin to strip my clothes.

They gently pull the sleeves over my arms, over my IV. I do not even feel ashamed to be seen naked anymore. My skin is sticky from the sweat, and I am so cold, but the wet shirt is finally off. The nurse on my left asks, “Are you wearing knickers under your pyjama pants?” I want to laugh, but settle for nodding my head. Off come the pants. The dress is straightened around my limp body, and they pull the sheet and thin blanket over me.

The shivering turns into violent shaking, the nurse on my left leaves and returns with two heated blankets from the machine. She places one just under my chin while she sets about tucking in the other, and through the foggy haze of my mind, my whole body craves the warmth. Weak arms try to pull up to the blanket, and my chin drops further to let my cheek and neck rest against the material. The nurse smiles at me, “I thought you might like that.”

My shuddering slows and turns to shivering, which slowly becomes stillness.

 

I am warm. I am safe. I am not in agony. I am grateful.

Hardcore Party Weekends

15 May

Its funny, I was just thinking about how long I’d been out of hospital recently, and BOOM! I’m back.

There are some fantastic advantages to living in a small town, but as a ‘sickie’ I’ve worked out what is most important to me.

The hospital.

The hospital is wonderful. They might not be set up to perform emergency surgery, but its small, quiet, and the staff learn who you are. In Perth, you can go to the same hospital twice a week and never see the same staff member. Here, as soon as I am brought through the doors, someone will call out, “I know this girl!”

And what an incredible time saver that is.

Just a few sticks- 1, 2, 3, 4. The fourth one she doesn’t warn me about, and I am trying to switch to a new vomit bag. I jump a little from the surprise, and I actually feel that one. Things start to fade, the room goes dark, and the next thing I remember is being asked to crawl over to the bed in the warm. I’m so cold. A nurse brings in another two blankets, heated from the machine, and puts them on me. One is almost touching my chin- I reach to grasp it, soothed by its warmth. She smiles, and says, “I thought you might like that.”

I remember when I first began to get sick. Mum would drive us to Armadale-Kelmscott Hospital, and the triage nurse would look bored and ask her questions, that my Mum would answer because I was too busy vomiting and trying to breathe in gasps in between the bile I was choking out of my mouth. The triage nurse would then ask us to go take a seat, and we would be seen when it was possible.

Back in the day, we used to wait at home to see if the vomiting and diarrhea would eventually pass on its own. Mum would be constantly swapping my spew containers so she could empty and disinfect them. The smell of toilet cleaner will for me, always be a reminder.

Eventually she’d sigh,You’re just getting too dehydrated,’ and I’d feebly pack a bag and climb into the car for the trip.

I remember lying on the floor of the emergency waiting room, because I couldn’t hold my body up from exhaustion. I would lay with my head on the cold lino, my whole body shuddering as I heaved over and over again into a bag.

A nurse comes over,You can’t lay on the floor.

My mum nearly had a fit, “Well, it’s not like you have a bed for her to lay on, obviously.”

When I finally was given a bed, they would spend a long time discussing the best form of action- which medication, how should it be delivered.

Meanwhile, I am in agony, and wish I could just die. It may sound weak, but when you are constantly too-ing and fro-ing from the hospital, when the pain is agonising, when you are just trying to establish a regular sleeping pattern. When you wait 3 hours in the waiting room because there was a car accident, and then another 2 hours waiting for someone to treat you.

You try to not cry, because crying will only make you feel worse, and make it harder to breathe while you are vomiting.

When each time it happens, your first thought is,Well, it was only a matter of time.” That feeling, that you will never escape the pain that defines you.

Listening to the doctors explain that your body is making an attempt to empty itself, preparing for death. Waiting for your body to finally give up, to not be willing to suffer through this anymore.

Four hours into treatment, and your cannula is blocked- the vein has collapsed. Doctor orders a new one immediately, and within the next half an hour, a free nurse will quickly whip out the old and often tender plastic tube, and start looking for a new vein. She calls for another nurse- together, they search for a healthy, pumping vein.

They ask again, “Do you use?
I remember the first time I was asked this, I replied,Use what?” Of course, no ones veins should all have collapsed just from previous cannulas. Time passes and they agree they’d better call the doctor back. Doctor is of course, not pleased. He requests an ultrasound machine be used to find a vein. Nurse asks him if we should do a drug screening.

A handsome young man comes with the ultrasound machine. He snaps on some gloves and makes cheerful conversation while he smears gel all over your arms, hands and even legs, searching with this miracle wand; connected to a machine that can see so much better than the naked human eye. He manages to find a vein hiding away, and uses the magic wand to help guide him in.

Success,” he smiles. I smile back weakly, but wonder how long it will be until I need another done- will this man still be around, working his machine the next time? Of course not. They’ll just keep stabbing and stabbing until they manage to get in somehow.

Mum is brought in and is tired, the only answer she wants to hear is how much better I feel. I manage to convince her to go home and get some rest, have something real to eatI’m fine.

Another four hours later, and just about every other patient in emergency is different from the ones who were there when you entered.

The mothers; resting on the bed, cuddling their young babies to their chest, grateful to have someone to help deal with the body wracking cough.

The 6 year old who hasn’t been to the toilet for 5 days, here with his grandmother.

The lady who had a fall, surrounded by her adult children.

The gentleman who had a stroke, whose wife sat lovingly by him and covered his hand with hers.

And the guy with the severely infected foot injury, one of the others in my lonely club of those with no company.

They have all moved on, either to a ward or home. There haven’t been any emergency codes, everything has run relatively smoothly. Every 20 minutes a nurse checks does your obs, asks you to score your pain out of ten and continues on to the next patient. Unfortunately the pain medication isn’t quite enough to completely block it all out. I frequently stumble to the bathroom if I am strong enough; its much less embarrassing than having a special wheelchair next to your bed fitted with a bedpan, and having the ring the bell for a nurse to empty it each time you go.

You are moved to a ward when you are stable enough. Since you have always been tall for your age, you are put in the adult ward 95% of the time; always in a private room so as not to infect any other patients with this mysterious ailment.

The gastroenterologist comes to see you, you discuss having more tests- but since the last four came back blank, there doesn’t seem much point. Each hospital admission is the same- same symptoms, same slow recovery. Why should the tests show anything different?

Food comes and goes. The portions are huge, even though you ticked the ‘small’ box. So much food is hard to even face, let alone stuff into your body.

Each day I go down to the garden for half an hour. I look at the plants. I watch the people in the cafe, and the people walking the corridors. Eventually I drag myself back to my room; I encountered no one. The most interaction I have had was with the lady who cleaned my bathroom while I did nothing.

Eventually the tea cart stops coming into your room if your mum isn’t there- they know you don’t want a tea or coffee. Days are broken up by seated showers, blocks of terrible television, hospitals meals and trying to stretch my muscles.

Then the day when you are finally released. You must wait all morning for your doctor to do rounds; they love the final stamp of approval. If you need a prescription, you’d better be prepared to wait a few more hours.

You walk out of the hospital midday in your PJs, clutching a childhood toy in your hands and immediately the gaze of two fashionably dressed teenagers having a chat out the front falls onto you. You look at the ground, only glancing high enough to follow your mother’s footsteps, so you can’t see the girls. But they are silent, watching, until you are well passed, and hopefully for you, out of ear shot.

Mum grumbles about the shade having moved from where she parked when she arrived. You slide in the passenger seat of the car, feeling queasy and unsure you should have left.

You know that you could be back by next weekend, to go through it all again. You know that, once again, you will be put in the private room,just in case its actually gastro this time’ and have no one to talk to, no one to listen to or be distracted by. The nurses will be in and out to access the storage cupboards in that single room too, so you’ll learn to become a heavy sleeper.

There is a lady in the ward with me. She is kind, friendly, young and aboriginal. She has a severe chest infection, and she begins the day by cough cough coughing. The nurses run her nebulizer every four hours, even during the night. Her mother has just come in with her baby and her older daughter. Her baby, Lateesha, was born in this hospital.

They do not deliver babies here anymore, but Lateesha arrived in such a hurry that there wasn’t a choice. Even the nurses are excited to see Lateesha, she is the hospital’s ‘baby’ and they enjoy seeing her growing into a healthy bub. I feel left out, for this lovely young lady has her family surrounding her and plenty to talk about.

Roland came in earlier to bring me the laptop, my phone charger and some clean knickers. But he is always with me in the hospitals, always waiting. Last night when we came in, he didn’t leave when he wanted to, because he knew I was scared. He did most of the talking to the doctors and nurses, reminds them off all my allergies, and is able to answer their complicated questions. He runs off numbers, dates and names of medications, and does his best to keep out of the way of the working staff. He doesn’t get grumpy with me, he knows I am suffering enough.

This morning he brings my Ipod too, but forgets the headphones. Boys. He will come back later today with a book, toothbrush and toothpaste and maybe some other goodies, too. He tells me that the girls are missing me, that they aren’t the same as usual, they are distressed. Later when he comes back he tells me that Brandy still hasn’t gone to the toilet. He brings everything I asked, both kinds of soap for the shower, warm long sleeved shirts of his, since all my jumpers and winter pyjamas have been soaked in sweat. He takes away the still-wet clothes I had arrived in, now in a plastic blue ‘patient property’ bag. He also brought pictures of my fur babies. I look through them over and over again.

I wish we lived just 200 metres closer to the hospital, I could probably pick up the wireless from there.
I spent most of my time in the hospital asleep. I am never present when a meal arrives- I am usually woken up by the person who comes to take it away. I drink plenty of water, as I’m positive my cannula has collapsed, and do not want them to try to use it. One of the kitchen staff tells me off for not filling out my menu, and I try to explain to her that I can’t eat any of the foods listed for lunch or dinner- my diet is very specific. When she leaves I have a few tears; I’m so tired, can’t she see that I’m trying? One of my favourite nurses comes in and sees my tears. I believe she told the kitchen staff off, because next time that particular lady came in, she apologized and was very kind. I’m sure she didn’t mean to come across so harsh. Later that day I get a heat pack for my stomach. When I aska nurse to heat it up, I swear she brings it back the same temperature it left at.

  
Another great thing about country hospitals- free TV in the wards! Although I don’t usually use it much, its still nice to have the option and distraction available.
The lady and I chat randomly. They bring dinner while I am in the shower, and when I exit the bathroom she tells me that dinner is terrible, don’t even bother trying the salad. We giggle over each others stories and for a little while, we pretend we are just out, having a hot drink at the local cafe. We spent the weekend learning little bits and pieces of each others lives. She tells me I am brave and beautiful, and I thank her. I truly don’t get told I am brave very often, yet I always feel like I’m losing the war.
 
The morning we were due to leave, we both had blood work done.  This cannot be done on weekends. We are waiting at 11:30 when the doctor finally swings by. He tells me that I should come back if I don’t feel well. I’m ready to leave when a nurse announces she doesn’t have the results for the blood tests yet, nobody can leave. Roland has arrived to collect me, and together we wait 20 minutes. I expect the blood work to show nothing surprising, as usual, but apparently I have an infection. I ask for a copy of the results, to send to my sister, the naturopath. And then finally, after another reminder to come back if needed, I am free.
I see no one going to the car- no teenagers gawking at me in my tights and heavy jumper. We are quickly home, and the girls are going insane. I take them outside after just a minute of pats- and Brandy immediately finally goes to the toilet. She’d been holding on for far too long! When we go back inside I sit down of their bed and enjoy being jumped all over. Roland makes sure the fire is burning nicely before he goes back to work. I sit in front of the flames, wishing the warmth would reach my core. My bones feel cold. But I am home again. I am surrounded by my own things, I can prepare my own edible food.
 
My girls sit one my legs and their body warmth slowly makes its way through my jeans and to my skin. I pet Missy, and Brandy gets jealous and wants some pats too.
Things are normal again. At least for a little while.