Its now one week since I was discharged from St John's in Livingstone - Ward 18 had become too comfortable, the other patients my pals, the nurses, doctors, cleaners, physios all too handy... the end when it came was sudden - discharge note and bag of pills in my sweaty anxious palm, waving goodbyes, wheeled unceremoniously backwards by my mother (there is no way of getting the wheelchairs through the swing doors any other way) - down the long cold corridors, passing the sign to HDU (more of that later) - and into reception area. Parked on my own by the car park ticket machine as my mother goes to get the car - utterly helpless and afraid - noone says hello, they look above, beyond, past...little boys point at my leg - I pretend it isnt mine..
Getting into the car is a trial but possible - leg awkward on a pillow on the floor - am in the front seat - am wary of the traffic - set my eyes to the left - see my first truck and ignore it - fixed on the view from the passenger side window. My mother may be more anxious than me. 25 miles later I get out of the car - stepping into the street for the first time with my crutches - facing the first hurdle - a 3 inch lip on the front door - it takes a good 2 minutes to work out how to hop over it - we didnt learn this in physio...
Hopping through the hall, jittery over the rugs and the cat - I enter what is to be my home for recuperation - the downstairs living room, with bed, settee (too low for me to sit on - would never be able to get back up, a couple of nice chairs, table with cheerful yellow table cloth, large flat screen TV (more of this later), log stove and door to the conservatory - its calm and quiet. I lie down on the bed, stash my pills, radio, phone, water, soft toy (Snowball!!), figs, banana, pen and lip salve into the window ledge - I am ready. The toilet is 8 hops away round a corner. In the hospital we didnt sit on toilets - but enjoyed a commanding view from the commode - how, I wondered, was I going to get down onto the toilet, and, more challenging, back up?
Getting into the car is a trial but possible - leg awkward on a pillow on the floor - am in the front seat - am wary of the traffic - set my eyes to the left - see my first truck and ignore it - fixed on the view from the passenger side window. My mother may be more anxious than me. 25 miles later I get out of the car - stepping into the street for the first time with my crutches - facing the first hurdle - a 3 inch lip on the front door - it takes a good 2 minutes to work out how to hop over it - we didnt learn this in physio...
Hopping through the hall, jittery over the rugs and the cat - I enter what is to be my home for recuperation - the downstairs living room, with bed, settee (too low for me to sit on - would never be able to get back up, a couple of nice chairs, table with cheerful yellow table cloth, large flat screen TV (more of this later), log stove and door to the conservatory - its calm and quiet. I lie down on the bed, stash my pills, radio, phone, water, soft toy (Snowball!!), figs, banana, pen and lip salve into the window ledge - I am ready. The toilet is 8 hops away round a corner. In the hospital we didnt sit on toilets - but enjoyed a commanding view from the commode - how, I wondered, was I going to get down onto the toilet, and, more challenging, back up?
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