By the time Wednesday morning   came, when I walked onto daycare ward 7A late at 11:15hrs with my suitcase and rucksack , I had spent my morning psyching myself up for my inevitable admittance to the hospital. I  snuggled my goodbyes with Bruce  and then immediately coated myself in antiseptic before doing it again because I still wasn’t quite prepared to not see his face for a few weeks. I even forced myself to watch some daytime TV tripe whilst reading the news on my phone as Bruce breathed into the back of my neck,  because I evidentially have a borderline unhealthy relationship with a dog. “What do you miss most from home Emma, your…?” “Bruce”, in a heartbeat. It was a shame that conversation was with a nursing assistant who took ‘Bruce’ to mean my “handsome husband.” 

 So, yes, it was 11:15hrs and I knew I was ready to go into hospital.

I was ready to go in, but I was not happy about it. I had to employ a fair amount of common sense to the scenario to be ready and argue against myself. Lest not forget that I had been told I was having an outpatient procedure with the chances of admittance being 50-70%. Almost as soon as I stepped into Daycare, seven days earlier, I was told that my admittance was an inevitability.  “As soon as your neutrophils reach 0.5 or below; it’s our policy”, one Medically Trained Person would say or “you have to be in the hostel!”. One Doctor simply said that I was down to do it as an outpatient, so we should try to do it as an outpatient.  No more, no less. He made sense to me. Sort of. So, when he said to me on Wednesday that despite having no fever, cold or flu type symptoms, he was recommending for me to be admitted to the hospital, I did not have the energy to reason back why I should have stayed out.

I can reason about it now of course. My admittance on Wednesday was partly based on a Medically Trained Person’s assessment from the previous day that I was “struggling”, with the then current arrangements. A struggle that could quickly become  a ‘routine’ but for a few simple changes made to the outpatient programme. For example, said patients could see the doctors at roughly the same time they have their bloods taken each day. Maybe they do not need to see a doctor everyday? The blood tests could be taken at the same time everyday to avoid the the need to wait and fill a collection box worth of the stuff before it is deemed financially viable for the lab to run the requested tests.  The biggest adjustment would allow for the patient, once they gave been seen and they require no other treatment that day, to go home. Having to be seen by a nursing assistant, a nurse (usually a sister) and a doctor, daily,  one could theoretically go home before the daily blood results come back in, on the agreement that you would come back if the bloods dictated a need to do so.  In the week I was there, nothing changed in the four hours it took to get my bloods back other than my ability to speak and my need for my bed. On some of the days, especially at the weekend, the SeniorMedically  Trained people were working to day old blood results anyway. 

Shaving off that few hours a day, could have potentially kept me out for a few days longer. The same person who said I was struggling on Tuesday, on Wednesday told me that I seemed like I had much more energy. I think getting home by 12:30hrs the previous day, in my own space had a lot to do with it, and I believe me, I said as much.

Looking tired was not the only reason for my admittance. The staff here are serious scientists and I should not go forgetting it. Some of them, I believe are caring ones at that. The move into a bed that somebody in all probabability, have probably soiled themselves on at least once,  was precautionary measure, I might not have any bugs yet, but my bloods were on a downward pattern with my neutrophils by Wednesday falling to a level of  0.1 for two consequative days. It’s Friday today and despite asking, nobody has given me my blood results since Wednesday. 

Since my arrival at 17:30hrs on Wednesday Night, all I have wanted to do was to sleep and  poop. Sleep and poop. It’s not too much information, it is the painstaking truth, of wanting to not pass out when you stand up sort of pain. Fortunately after six long days, my Movicol kicked in this morning and I sang my Hallelujahs. 

Sleep is harder to quantify. Yesterday I persistently wanted to vomit, which prevented me from an interrupted sleep but it was an abuse that could only be cured by sleep.  I could have easily of slept all day and  I slept all night AND done the same today. I am probably not long off it today. 

I fear that  my admittance, my admittance, to my very own side room no less, is a fraud. Is there a reality show where the winner gets their own room if they are the sickest? I know I am neutropenic, but I knew that it was okay on Tuesday night when I was fine in my own home. My bloods have  flatlined before, in April and I did not get a bug then, I was fine. History could repeat itself. Accept, I wasn’t really fine on Tuesday. I could stay out because I had other people to look after me. No amount of planning ahead made it any easier for me to heat up a frozen baked potato. Big Sister had driven down earlier that day to feed me and repack my hospital bag. Over the weekend, Mamma Jones did pretty much everything for me. I could have stayed at home if I had 24 hour care for an unknown amount of time, but that just is not practical. By Wednesday morning, the short walk from the Little Britain hospital entrance to the day care ward had me gasping.

My worries about being a fraud in my own side room, with a window without curtains and a television where the channel can only changed by turning it up, were proved preposterous this morning when the simple act of getting up to brush my teeth required an hour nap afterwards. After my shower and stool, it was a two hour nap. It would appear among the many things going on inside my body, outwardly, it needs days made of sweet dreams.*

Plus, yesterday, a magical pump was put into my arm that I have to carry everywhere I go (bed and toilet), which automatically dismisses anti sickness medicine. It’s a revelation. I woke up this morning and gulped down a cup of water and I did not want to immediately vomit it back up. I wouldn’t have got that home. 

The truth is, the communication may  only be marginally better than on Daycare, but this place is still the best place for me as much as I could sit here and pick apart all the errors in their systems. What errors you ask? Well, despite my need for twice daily morphine  being one of the first things I mentioned to the ward nurse on Wednesday, who by the way told me off for saying that my back problems were myeloma related and scolded me for not informing her that I was Day+6 post mini allo. On the latter point I just looked dumbfounded and said that I thought that information was a given . I’ll let you into secret,  MST is  a medication I care about a lot, so much so in fact that in the two days I have been here I have  also mentioned it to the pharmacist, the chief ward nurse, every doctor I have seen and any nurse who has given me any drug, and yet they are still claiming I have never been prescribed MST by this hospital. Thank goodness for my secret stash and my own toilet. A communal bathroom just would not be fair on anybody else.

* if sweet dreams can be achieved with a minimum of one interruption every four hours, but we all know it is more. I have seen one friend today, five nurses, three nursing assistants, a doctor, two cleaners and one tea lady. At least I think I have.