11 Days on the Front Line at Ysbyty Gwynedd, Bangor, North Wales.
So here I am lying in my bed on the ward, wandering in and out of consciousness. Wired up to an ECG. Last night the nurses shaved a smiley face into my hairy torso to accommodate the sticky electrodes. It was quite a laugh, perhaps the most fun I’ve had in a while. I feel so tired. Soon it will be Sunday and Nicola will be up with the kids. The other strokies on the ward range in age and sex from a dementia ridden old lady to a young fella who had collapsed on the football pitch. He will be off soon to be replaced by a crazy cockney who seems to be permanently in the bar of the Winchester Arms. He must have told me his name at least a hundred times in a conspiratorial whisper. Perhaps it’s Dave. Buggered if I can remember. He seems to need my help with something. Something to do with catching a bus. I couldn’t pull the skin off a rice pudding and there’s great yawning chasms where my memory used to be. I recognise my name but not “who” I am. I’m lost in a no- man’s land of thought and memory. Drifting.
Through the window I see the outlines of once familiar hills and a great sadness overwhelms me. I turn to the wall and great heaving sobs rack my body. I don’t know why I’m crying. Then I need a pee. Oh the ignominy. I have to summon a nurse who supplies me with a cardboard bottle in which to micturate. I leave it to ooze and seep on my table, much to a nurse’s disgust. Night and day pass. I drink only water. Food doesn’t interest me.
I see Nicola and the kids. Amber, my eldest is full of consternation the youngest two are terrified and Jack, my lovely son, like his mum is in deep shock. The surrounds of his bloodshot eyes dark as storm clouds. He looms quietly almost in the background. Oh, how I feel for him. A memory returns. I recall seeing my Dad in hospital a few days after his stroke. I had been away working. In those days before mobile phones we didn’t converse like we do today. I remember the shock of a once vital man reduced to a mere grey husk.
Inconsequential banter ensues. Nicola has brought me Apple juice, which I imbibe greedily. Finally I accept some food - a bowl of porridge. Until I leave that is all I eat and drink, breakfast, lunch and tea. She has also brought my iPad. A life line. I don’t make them stay too long. I can’t stand looking at their faces. I don’t want to be like this.
After they have gone, promising to see me tomorrow. I switch on Netflix and start to watch old war films and Peaky Blinders. The mists begin to clear and my mind begins to stutter back into life. Insubstantial memories wander back. The institutional rhythm of the ward reminds me of an earlier life. That of being at Boarding School and nine years old again. I feel all the old feelings of homesickness and loneliness. The missing of family and the comforts of home. I am beginning to heal.
It’s the same for the next week. A week in which the Consultant visits, squeezes my thigh. Apparently I am good and strong and will be okay. A psychiatrist drops by to sort me out but leaves quite quickly when she can’t find many ways to help me. I’m wheeled off to the physio-terrorist a few times. I am put through my paces. More scans. My left leg and foot are painful. I begin to write. Just to show off I use my left hand. I awake in the middle of one night and summon a nurse, who cannot make head nor tail of what I’m saying. Turns out I’m speaking in my second language - French. All the while the hills are calling. I’m not going to be here long. I take myself off to the cafeteria 3 flights of stairs and several corridors away. They come looking for me and haul me back. Finally after 10 days I am allowed to have a shower.
Good job too, because tomorrow I go home.