What
sort of sick mother actually enjoys a week in hospital? I guess
for a mother who is trying to arrange Christmas on a very tight
budget for a large family, mentally and physically exhausted, and not
a little unwell in to the bargain, a week of being waited upon,
listened to, and generally very kindly treated and looked after, was
really quite nice.
My
haemoglobin levels were so low that I was falling asleep all over the
place and really couldn't give two hoots where the hell I was so long
as it was acceptable to close one's eyes for a while, but to finally
be somewhere where they encouraged me to rest, was enough to bring
tears to my eyes, if I hadn't been too tired even to cry.
Over
the hours it took to admit me, and take blood, get a night out of the
way, then get the gynaecologists to see me, I dozed, read, ate,
drank tea, made friends with the other ladies, and simply closed my
eyes when I did not wish to talk any more.
It
was a ferociously busy six bedded bay, post-op ladies with
complications, a lady with hyperemesis gravidarum, a very disabled
lady with a multitude of difficulties. I fell into the
hospital rhythms, fitful dozing all night as people cried, vomited,
shat themselves, and were admitted or moved, drug rounds, tea rounds,
meals.
Everyone
flat out by six am, and awake again within the hour to florescent
glare and pills and tea and toast that was just warm bread that
hadn't been toasted at all. Doctors' rounds, nurses doing obs,
lunch, rest, visitors. Tea, dinner time, obs, visitors again. If
any of this constant merry-go-round became to much, my eyes could
close, and I could
sleep,
or not, or read, or not, whatever I wished. Nothing was
expected of me, there was no one to let down, or annoy. Only
kindness. People moaned about the food, but I chose salad, and
it was simple and healthy and good quality. I guess in the
absence of likelihood of a spa weekend or a retreat, the simple
austerity I imagined prison to be (I know it isn't really like that)
would have suited me. I could imagine learning an instrument,
or spending vast amounts of time in meditation, but probably not ever
finishing a book.
After
a couple of units of blood I felt able to get up and wander to the
chapel where I was relieved to find no-one but the presence of
something out of time and physical pain and welcoming of my
contemplative mood. I experimented with praying just to pray,
not imploring an invisible force for something, but communing with
something, opening up to something, and being opened in return.
All
too soon, I felt physically better. I still had the gynae
problems, but pills were controlling the bleeding, and the
transfusion had restored my vitality. Equally healing was the cocoon
of kindness I had felt wrapped in whilst being a patient. I guess it
shows how bad my life has become, when the only time I feel able to
accept simple care and kindness is when I am officially ill.
