It’s Monday evening and I’m still here, in the hospital. Still getting served weird concoctions, having a nebuliser shoved onto my face whenever possible and a lot of drugs given every few hours. The time has come for me to dream of my bed, clothes that don’t make me look like a 12th century farmers wife and food that has taste, texture and love put into it. Not sloppy Oliver ‘Please Can I Have Some More’ porridge type meals- enough to make the weakest barf uncontrollably into their cup of tea.
This time I’m in a different ward. My third change since I arrived here. I’ve made some friends and felt like a mini celeb when I left one ward to go to another. The waving, the good byes and merry Christmases whilst Beth giggled uncontrollably behind me in my biddy wheelchair pushed by a guy whose face makes him look like he’s just come our of kindergarten.
I’m in a new ward now. Opposite one hell of a hyperactive Teenager who swears like a little trooper, has a mouth on her and will not STFU egged on by her worryingly thin nan. Lord, I’ve got this for a further 24-48 hours. God help me.
The bed is comfier than the last, longer too and it has these cool awesome buttons that you press and I feel like a kid at Thorpe Park. Up I go. Down I go. Ooooh up and down at the same time. It’s like something out of transformers. Currently I’m in the feet down, knees raised, bum down and upper me up position. Sounds technical but pretty comfy I must say. Could get used to this. Might get one for home.
The hat I have delighted with you all in the past has been a delight to my fellow patients and a talking point too. The polar bear has now gone. Possibly to be exhumed from all germs at home in Mum’s new start-of-the-art washing machine. It provided one fellow patient, my neighbour yesterday to get her son to talk to me about his desire to travel to the North Pole. It’s a hat. I bought it from H&M and believe me a wealth of David Attenborough knowledge did not come with it. But it’s provided everyone with the smiles and chitter chatter so not going to complain.
It’s also been part of my eccentric exercise routine to keep my legs feeling less like jelly and more my pins. This morning when I waited for a doctor I walked to and from the toilet six times with a bit of a bop in my step, channeling my inner 50 cent. Yo. Whilst listening to my iPod, I channeled my inner star child quality and did a bit of interpretive dance to get the joints moving. Blood has got to keep pumping. Will be walking out of here with a new lease of life in mind, better get on it.
Even though I’ve not eaten much apart from 2 sandwiches from la Tesco and munched on a few cold potatoes, my diet has been mostly based on what I asked my mum to get from the shop. My lunch today was a delightful pork chop, chips and peas served with ice cream but looked like this:
My dinner this evening was supposed to be fish fingers (one of my favourite foods ever) with croquette potatoes and sweetcorn I got this:
Can anyone answer me why I have two types of potato on my plate and no fish fingers?!! To make matters worse, the lady ran out of jelly and ice cream so I’m currently the fruit queen instead. I’m in hospital not a jungle. I want jelly and ice cream godammit. This can make up for the time I didn’t get my tonsils out I so desperately wanted out when I was 8 to be in the chance with jelly and ice cream like everyone else. Urgh.
I hope I’m out soon. Hopefully tomorrow. Liking my new daily updates from inside this gigantic box. I hope I’m not boring you all.
Have a good night!
Until tomorrow xx