Apologies everyone, time has been running away from me. So sit back and enjoy the warm weather for this (in Britain at least) Bank holiday weather 🙂 and take in a leisurely catch-up read.
Tales from the Ward Chapter 50: The Demon Drink
You’d think for a pseudo medical facility/ residential home/ rehab centre there would be some kind of check on how much alcohol any patient can hold.
But my room is beginning to resemble the bar of the Rovers Return.
Two bottles of wine.
A gin house containing four gins, three of which I’ve heard of, two of which I’ve tried, and a black bottle I’m really rather suspicious about.
But as fond as I am of gin, it is the Swedish vodka Absolut that is my absolute favourite.
They’ve been doing this promo pack of flavoured vodkas at the local supermarket.
Just a tenner for five miniature glass bottles that are good for at least half a dozen swigs each.
Raspberry helped me as a mild anaesthetic for a minor surgical procedure a few weeks back.
And the vanilla one reminded me of ice cream.
If I’d not necked the raspberry one so quick I could have enjoyed a raspberry ripple effect I suppose.
By the fourth bottle I’m getting a bit easy with how I drink my vodkas.
I’m nearing the end of my lime vodka. Slowly I twist off the top and lift the bottle to my lips.
But I’m too quick to throw my neck back and the vodka’s going straight down the wrong hole.
I’m choking and the vodka’s burning my throat. I’m trying to cough but I can’t draw breath without inhaling pure lime hinted vodka. I don’t want to die of vodka aspiration.
Somehow I spit it out.
The next morning I’m coughing fluid out my lungs.
Ever the hyperchondriac, I diagnose the start of vodka induced pneumonia.
Tales from the Ward Chapter 51: The Anniversary.
This week marks a date I would rather forget. One year since my admission to hospital and the start of what has been one of the toughest years of my life.
A dramatic shift from independent person, able to travel solo – despite disability, live alone, drive, to one that requires two others to help me get up, wash and dress.
Anyone who knows me will tell you how independent I am.
What life could I have having someone watching over me day and night?
Unable to transfer from chair to bed or toilet. Incontinent and using adult daipers. What life was this?
This isn’t a post about the complete inadequacies of social care in the UK.
But being placed on a rota of when I can get up, piss or shit is not a life. Or certainly not a life I care to lead. And what hope could I have ever had of having a social life when government approved carers would come at 9pm to put me to bed?
I have to thank Quadriplegia for helping save me. She told me about the rehab centre
I’ve now been at for 6 months. And to the several hundred others who helped finance my stay here. Progress is slow and the work is hard. I can’t stand yet. I may never.
I’ve had a funky catheter coming out of my belly for 6 months too. I don’t need to worry about peeing anymore – only to remember the small leg bag that needs emptying. Often.
I fear embarrassment but others don’t seem bothered. A long-haul flight to Africa is no longer filled with dread.
And overseas travel is possible if you make the effort to find people who can look after you. Disability is not inability, just a lot more planning.
My present days are busy, filled with routine.
Physio, hand and arm therapy, cycling. Food, mostly inedible. Waiting for the fights between Djokic and Karin, who gets more aggressive by the day.
I still rage at the NHS and its inefficiencies. Good now, I think, only for placing a sticking plaster over a massive gaping wound.
Chances for new drug treatments six months away at least.
But I am still here. Plans for a new business are underway.There’s the possibility of a job.
The days are long now and I wake early. I listen to bird song and think.
The carers come to shower me and we gossip about the Royal wedding. They’re moisturizing my bare legs, but there’s no awkward intimacy.
Would it be better if things had stayed the way they were? I’m not so sure.
I’m no less of a person because my physical self no longer moves in the same plane it once did. It’s taken this year for me to accept the new me.
The crazies and weirdos of this neurological space are my neighbours now.
Tales from The Ward. Chapter 52: Zombies
The sound of The Zombies ‘She’s not there’ drifts through my open windows.
It’s very warm for May and the sky is perfectly blue.
The song is ‘live’; being thrashed out by one of the carers, who clearly dreams of a different life as a pop star.
But it is a welcome relief from the tuneless pap muzak emanating from Marin’s room further down the corridor.
I’m trying to decide if the choice of song was deliberate or accidental but the guitarist is playing in the garden of the dementia unit.
I giggle to myself as the chorus reaches its crescendo.
The warmer weather seems to have brought a change of feel to rehab.
Marin seems to have taken a happy pill. He greets me by my name for the first time in six months. I didn’t realise he even knew what I was called.
There are more changes. Kathleen is a new arrival and has taken the room of softly spoken Michael.
So quiet I didn’t notice him slip away.
Kathleen’s chatty. Recovering from a brain tumour and bleed on the brain.
Who do I need to be wary of? she whispers conspiratorily.
My reply comes in an instant: Karin. Watch any soft drinks you have. She will take them from you.
Karin’s behaviour is slowly getting worse. She’s moodier and more aggressive.
Perhaps she retains some record in her mind of the constant revision to her departure plans, and her failure to achieve them is the source of her anger.
She has a thick puffer jacket on despite the weather. As I come by she glowers at me.
You’re all dressed up, I say as I wheel past. It’s subliminal. Not ‘With no where to go.’ More: No where you’re allowed to go.
I’m going home today, she says.