I was convinced that this time round I was being a sensible, grown up, clever
boy in deciding to come into hospital for a stay on the ward for my second week
of IVs – its good for me, I know I need it and, well, its good for me.
What I’d also convinced myself was that it was going to be much much easier to
deal with coming into hospital having had it all pre-planned.
It’s always rubbish and ever so slightly depressing coming in for a stay,
usually made worse by the fact that you’re not feeling great in the first place
and it normally comes as a bit of a shock when you think you’ve just popped in
for a clinic visit and they strap you to a bed..
So logic dictates that if you’re feeling ok to start with, as I am, and the stay
is pre-planned, as it was, then you shouldn’t struggle as much with admission.
But, as we all know by now, my logic is frequently fatally flawed – especially
when it comes to dictating what tricks my mind is going to play on me from
moment to moment.
So I spent last night and this morning in mopey-child mode, being generally glum
and po-faced at the prospect of losing my liberty.
It wasn’t helped by the fact that the ward phoned early to tell me not to come
because they didn’t have a bed for me yet, but to wait for a call to say it was
ok to come in.
It threw my carefully planned day off and led to a distinct raising of hopes
that they might in fact not find a bed for me at all and I’d get another night
at home. Or even better, if I stayed out Monday night I might be able to
convince them I didn’t really need to come in anyway and could avoid the stay
I tried incredibly hard to ignore the persistant niggling hope that I’d get away
with it, but I was still decidedly deflated when I spoke to the ward just befor
4pm and they told me to come in.
If only I’d not phoned to jog their memory, who knows?
Luckily I’d been persuaded by K to listen to my more pessimistic (realistic)
instincts and had done most of my packing, but it was still a distinct struggle
to gather myself up and drive over to Oxford.
As it is, now I’m here, its really not as bad as I built it up to be in my head.
I know most of the staff so well now that they’re like friends and i’ve already
had one HCA tell me she heard me on the radio!
It’s much nicer on the ward here now since the move to their new building, with
en suite rooms which are actually nicer than some travelodges i’ve been to.
I also spoke to my bro, who’s decided that his motivation for getting through
this week of his commando course for the marines is going to be that no matter
how hard, cold and horrible things get for him this week, it could be worse: he
could be in hospital.
Which is funny because the thought struck me earlier that the way I’d get
through the week would be to remember that not matter how dull, lonely and
unhappy this week gets in hospital, it could be worse: I could be on dartmoor in
the cold and the wind and the rain on the commando course.
I think my bro and I maybe the perfect yin-yang.
So, note to self for the future: just because you plan it doesn’t always make it
easier to deal with. But just because you dread it doesn’t always make it as bad
as you expect.
Some other posts you might like:
- Nope, we got nada!