For 15 days and 14 nights I have ‘defied all odds’ and I have only stepped in foot of a hospital once to see the view from the 16th floor of the tower. The world I have seen has been very much restricted to half of University Street, approximately a fifth of Huntley Street, a few lifts, the Ambulatory Care, a treatment room or two and the Cotton Rooms. Most of my day, I would guess at least 90% of my day has been reserved for my bed and the room it is in.
I have saved you from the monotony of this, mainly because I have not had the energy to put words into sentences in my real life, let alone on a blog, but I have an hour to kill right now, so I thought, why not share my 200 metre in diameter bubble.
90 percent of my time on or in bed is a long old time to spend on or in a bed. We had to buy a blanket, so I could feel there was some distinction between the day and the night. I have watched, or at least listened to a lot of television. If daytime TV were not so horrific and my brain function not so limited, I could have enjoyed myself.
Anybody with a beady eye would have noticed that I swapped beds in the photos above. There is a valid reason and that reason is because I was without a Mamma Jones or Big Sister from Monday morning and the former said I needed to be next to the emergency alarm. That was one of the most significant events over the last fortnight. Similar, but nowhere as painful as my five stools.
The Cotton Rooms, as I would have said the last time I experienced them, are more than palatable, I think they are better than anything Lenny Henry would advertise, and it has working air conditioning, which I could never not be a fan of.
If the views from my beds were not riveting enough for you, I walked, possibly an entire cumulative mile in the same shoes, seeing and experiencing all of this, whilst feeling like there was a trout living in my skull, using all my available energy.
It may cause some feelings of envy in you, for I have been told that not all Ambulatory Care ‘hotels’, are as slick as what I have had the (dis)pleasure to experience. The good old NHS, eh?
My favourite thing to look at each day is not a cold EMan ripe for sniffing, but a lone building, which reminded me half of the house in ‘batteries not included’ and half of the house in ‘Up’. It was a last building standing, for it’s immediate neighbours had been not so long demolished. My photo of it, does not do it justice.
Bed, wake up, force down some food and a drink, shower, walk, obs, walk, bed. Bed, wake up, force down some food and a drink, shower, walk, obs, walk, bed…. That’s been the last 14 days.
Right now however, I have mixed things up a little and my view is this and my is it beautiful:
My routine will continue to be monotonous and I will continue to be weak, but I will be in my own beds, with the dog/dogs around me, in my own space with on demand television services, feeling rather smug in the knowledge that I had an autogenous stem cell transplant, without being hospitalised. There is very little I can feel smug about, so I will embrace becoming an urban myeloma legend.
I’m home and that, on Day + 13 is bloody brilliant.