The Long Road Ahead

If you are here but haven’t read the first post in the series, you can here: https://thelongroadahead.blog/2024/07/04/the-day-everything-changed/

Week 1: Hell is probably a quieter place

It was Monday the 1st of January. I awoke early in the morning to the sound of whining and crying a new member of the open ward I was in who was going through a psychological event where he needed his wife constantly, and it was challenging for me to become accustomed to this new normal I remember his voice even now, a shrill scream of her name “Hazel, Hazel, where are you?” I remember my anger boiling over later that day and screaming at him to shut up. I still don’t feel as bad about that as I think I should, but to be fair, I was going through my own issues at the time, only I was quieter about my problems. Little did I know that it would be like this for the next three weeks, but that’s a story for later on.

A few hours later, a doctor was in the ward doing the rounds, and he approached me asking something along the lines of “What brought me here?” I don’t remember a lot of what was said at the time, as those first two weeks were a chaotic blur, but I do remember him scheduling a memory test; it was a basic test similar to those given for Alzheimer’s and dementia it went as follows:

1. Remember five words in order and then repeat them;
2. draw a picture of a clock and show what time it is and what day it is. This was the most awkward, as the time and date weren’t what I was focusing on.
3. Answer questions and then, to the end, recall the five words. I remember getting the words in the wrong order at first, but then, as I came to the end, I suddenly plucked the correct order and was able to change my answer.

Week 2:

By this point, I was getting used to the routine of things: the lights would come on, the nurses would come around to get people washed and dressed, the doctors would come around to review each person in the ward, and then breakfast would be delivered, and the day would start.

As the first Monday of this week went on, I was greeted by the new neighbour in the ward; the previous one had passed away in the middle of the night. I never met the man as his privacy curtain was drawn most of the time he was there. However, his family was friendly enough to say hello and goodbye each time they visited, disappearing into the blue curtain as if attempting a magic trick, one which I wouldn’t ever see.

As fate would have it, it was right next to me. He was a man in his 50s with silver hair who seemed pleasant. His wife was there to help make him comfortable and ease him into this new environment. I remember thinking that he was lucky to have someone who cared for him that much. I also felt that he was a nice and civilised addition to the ward, although I would soon come to regret those thoughts.

As the week went on, I attended physio I remember thinking this was the start of getting on my feet. Little did I know how hard it would be. I began in a side room where a bed was propped up against a side wall. I was told to use the side rail to pull myself up unto my feet. When I got up, I was to hold on till I got my balance adjusted. I did that and quickly discovered that my balance was so shot I couldn’t even stay up unless I was holding on to something. My entire centre of balance was off; my walking gait wasn’t proper, I was trying too hard to compensate for my weakness, and I would tire myself out very quickly. Still, I was just happy to be doing something.

My friends and family visited every other day so they could get out at lunchtime from school. These were the best things; they picked me up and made me feel like a human again, not just a patient. It was also a boost to my day to see them. However, time would indeed fly by when we were together I hated that, but I understood that they couldn’t stay as it was policy visiting hours were a thing, and while I didn’t like it, The only issue was when they both turned up I would be stuck for choice because there would be too many people to talk to and I think the limit was like four people max.

Now you might remember my neighbour, the man in his 50s with the silver hair. It was mid-week when I started to get pulled into the sheer insanity that was this man. I began to realise that he was very temperamental when it came to his “medication” Now, I use that term very loosely; they were black triangle drugs, which I later learnt meant not a lot of information on the market, so the hospital had taken it off him for the time being this was the start of things going downhill his mood changed he became erratic and even tried to escape the ward several times a day over the week.

None of this bothered me until he decided that he’d tell me to shut up and hang up my call in the middle of said call with a friend who’d not been able to see me as he was away over the Christmas holiday now suddenly, I was invested when he got up and went for a walk I rang the call button for the nurse to go and get him I felt worse for them as the amount of abuse they’d get each time they caught him and brought him back after the first couple of times they asked me to keep an eye on him, I happily accepted I must admit it brought me satisfaction to see this happen each time.

The man crying for his wife at all hours of the day had become the least of my problems. At this point, I only wanted to leave the hospital and be transferred home.

The weekend approached, and it was the worst time for me. My friends were busy, and the ward quietened down. I was out of bed as earlier in the week; I was given the slight freedom to sit in a chair by the side. It was the worst time for me as I couldn’t do any physio, and I just felt like I was doing nothing. Little did I know that rest was important towards recovery, but I looked at things differently back then. I believed that if I wasn’t doing anything, I was recovering.

Week 3:

The week started pretty slow. I met the doctor and discussed the possibility of going home because I wanted to be back in my everyday environment. He told me he would have to speak with the other physiotherapists and see where they were on it, but he was happy with my progress. I haven’t had another stroke or issue since arriving, and they have the correct doses of medication for me.

I did my physio and still couldn’t stay up straight without support from a bench as I shuffled along at the speed of a tortoise. I remember thinking that I was doing well. I wasn’t going as quickly as I used to, but I was making progress nonetheless.

My friends visited, and after updating them with my most positive spin, they quickly changed the subject and began talking about what was going on in their world; after some back and forth, they began to ask about my issue with the guy next door I filled them in with a quietness that could only be described as “plotting something” as I didn’t want the guy next door to hear me they laughed at my predicament we chatted and soon the bell rang for visiting time to end.

After that, to make my time here even sadder, I soon realised that my fun was ending as after the visiting hours had ended, a doctor came around, and I found out he was being released home later that week. Now, I was even more intent on getting home.

It also didn’t help that the man was going the next day, but before that, he decided to try to force me to write emails on his behalf to colleagues. I refused, and he stood beside me and wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t hit the button to call for the nurse as he was obstructing it. Luckily for me, a nurse was heading down the corridor and noticed that he was in my space; she escorted him away from me and pulled the privacy curtain around my unit to give me space from him and told me to call for them if they came back.

The next day, I spoke to the physiotherapist and told them that I wanted to go home and that I was beginning to get frustrated that I wasn’t getting what I wanted; a doctor approached me, and after some chatting with them, he informed me that I wouldn’t be going home, but I was getting transferred to a hospital in my hometown one that wasn’t as packed as my previous one and therefore they could spend more time helping me. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was literally the closest I could be to home without being home.

And it would be on the last day of the week, so I’d have the weekend to adjust to my new surroundings; I spoke with the doctor and stressed that I was not too fond of the open ward at this point over the last three weeks as the sheer amount of hassle I had and asked if it was possible to get a room in the hospital now this is something that they usually don’t do. Still, he explained that he heard good things from the staff about me and was thankful for the help I gave and that he would put in a good word for me and see what he could do. I still don’t know if that was true, but I did get a room for myself.

Leaving the hospital was bittersweet, but it marked a new phase in my journey – and I held onto the strength I’d discovered within.

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