The Hospital I’ve Just Come Home From

Ah so I’m writing this in the full knowledge that by the time I manage to finish, I’ll be in need of morphine (which I wasn’t sent home with) and my right hand will look muscly in comparison to my strapped up lefty. We’re one handed tonight and this seems to be it for a while.

So I said I’d post pictures. A little homemade documentry about part one of plastic surgery for the self harmer.

Carrying on from when I lasted posted, I was heading out to the swimming pool sounding  Trafford Centre for what I thought would be a quickie shop. I thought naively that the ward who, at the time were, “just quickly sorting out the beds”, would call me back and ask me to come in and slip under scratchy blankets. They didn’t, so my mum kept calling. Eventually, after taking my dad for his own hospital appoitment, we gave up and went home to watch Neighbours and have tea. They called as soon as my mum had put the oven on. We arrived at the hospital at 7pm, hot and very bothered.

After going to the admissions office to do paperwork, I was shown my bed and then left with my parents in the Day Room. This is where I was and what I looked at for the next 4 hours;

Not that you can see from the crappy pictures but we watched far too much Wimbledon that night. Having said that I’m probably the only one who felt that. Both parents were accidently but embarrassingly whooping at various points in one of Murray’s matches.

At about 11pm, a nurse realised my parents were still hanging around and ushered me to my bed for my admission. They went home and left me to another hour of waiting. So anyway, eventually we did temperature – 36.3 degrees, BP – 103/65 and some other stuff that I can’t remember. I then signing a form saying that I was allowing the nurse to put a wrist and ankle band on me. Yes they had to have written permission and yes I thought it was ridiculous too. Blah, blah, blah. Many forms and questions were asked after this and my psych meds were locked away. I was totally ready for sleep once we were done but no, I had to wait until 1am for the plastic surgeon on-call to give me a visit before shut eye. He’d been stuck in A&E for the evening whilst I’d been melting into the plastic chairs. He drew an arrow on my leftie to prevent them chopping up my right one;

My evening ended with an anticoagulant being injected into my stomach, a pleasure that was repeated each night until I was set free.

I didn’t really manage to sleep that night. I saw the clock at least once every hour. As soon as it was acceptable I got out my Puzzler (guilty as a geek) and sat with my black pen (it always has to be a black papermate) until they gave me attractive anti bloodclot socks and asked me to have a wash before surgery;

I looked like a right sex-pot after;

My morning was filled with tests and doctor visits, the Professor even came to see me again – “oh now I do remember these arms.” I was second on the list for surgery which had me shuffling down to theatre in a very big and very gappy hospital gown and a nurse to protect my dignity before having it undone a little by the anaesthetist who tried his hardest not to embarrass me as he stuck those circles to my chest. He then asked me if I fancied doing the countdown. I declined, preferring to try and stop the world spinning and my head from getting any more pins and needles. I then fell asleep.

Amd must do the same now, I’ll carry on rambling in the morning. Hope everyone is okay, I’ll catch up soon.