This fourth admission is torture.
I have postoperative complications; another obstruction, a narrowing of the lower bowel caused by the surgery. I can’t keep anything down, and crave liquid. The paramedics are gentle and kind. They put me on a drip before taking me into A & E but my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth.
In A&E whilst I wait on an uncomfortable trolley to be admitted to the ward I see the staff drink endless cups of juice. I want to mug them to get some. I beg for some really cold water. One nurse promises to fetch me some iced water. I watch her in desperation. I can’t move. She disappears and I don’t see her again. A doctor brings me some tepid water to sip, but I bring it straight back up and feel ten times worse.
It is 1.30am. They take me for an X-ray and a CT scan. I am eventually admitted to a Medical assessment unit while they wait for a surgical bed. The hours pass slowly. I am very sick. They have to change the bed linen twice. I really don’t want to go on.
The orderlies offer everyone food and drink. I am Nil by Mouth and they offer me nothing. On this ward there isn’t even ice to suck. The staff buzzes round busily. I am desperate to get back to Whippingham ward, where I know the nurses and they know me. The hours pass slowly. I lie here staring at the ceiling. I just don’t understand why and what is happening to me.
Late afternoon and I am finally transferred to the ward. They bring me crushed ice and a straw. I can manage only the tiniest sips. Another stomach tube eventually relieves the symptoms and I begin to recover. My first proper drink tastes like nectar. I savour each mouthful. Hot chocolate. I crave the sugary sweetness and the sensation of something in my stomach at last. A day later my first bite of toast lasts ages and is manna from heaven.
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