Friday 30th. July: Ward 8 of the Stroke Unit was a very different place from an acute ward. I arrived late to a quiet, darkened, sleeping environment. I noticed that one of the nurses was a nun, wearing a wimple identical to the headscarf worn by the muslim nurses. Religious women have always covered their heads, I thought.
At breakfast, I hankered for the bran flakes and banana offered at the LRI. The only wholegrain cereal on offer was Weetabix, which required immediate sitting up and alertness to avoid a soggy mess.
The others in the four bedded ward were two elderly women and one young girl, who seemed very ill. On the first morning I met Professor R (no first names here) who gave me practical advice about a phased return to work and when I could expect to drive again. I explained my jobs dilemma and he reassured me that I would be well enough to take up my new post. I tell him about the CT Angiogram, taken two days before and that I'm 'waiting on results' from QMC. He doesn't seem aware of this and says that they have all the facilities to do their own tests and have a direct computer link with QMC. So why did I spend five days in the LRI?
I start Physiotherapy. The Physios all seem to be tall, slim, good looking and shining with health, like an advert for Switzerland or Nike. My walking and balance skills are assessed and I go to the Physiotherapists 'gym' session, which is a circuit of mobility and hand-eye coordination activities. I'm not too bad at the hand-eye stuff but rubbish at the mobility tasks, particularly weaving between cones. I'd certainly be picked out by the police for a breath test if I was spotted walking from my car.
In the afternoon, it's visiting time. Friends and family bring the outside with them and the ward is transformed from it's habitual quiet, somnolent state. I think about how much the cards, flowers, visits, texts and phone calls have mattered to me. I resolve to try to be more caring in future. A nurse comes onto the ward and says my mother has telephoned. I can see she's laughing and I can imagine why.
Then it's the weekend and not much happens medically. The ritual of meals becomes important as the staff who bring around the tea, who take orders for food and who serve the meals seem to have more time to talk. From this, I learn that the focus of everyone on the staff is the move of the entire Stroke Unit to the LRI next week. It seems that long term working relationships are to be disrupted and it has been hard to organise work rotas around the move. This is the only time I see any person, staff or patient, show any emotion.
My eldest son comes for the weekend and makes himself useful at home by running errands and visiting me on Saturday afternoon. One of the few benefits of my situation is to have a 'one to one' with my son and I don't waste it. The next day, I am struck by the incongruity of the partnerships that can arise from hospital visiting as my son, my sister and a work colleague share a conversation around my bed.
Around ward routines and visiting, I sleep or read. My companions are not able to watch television, so ours is thankfully off. I can't imagine watching a whole programme as I did last Sunday. In some respects I'm improving but in the brain department things seem to be worse.
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