The Move

Finally the news came that I’d be going to the rehab hospital.  I was given two weeks notice.  Two weeks to mentally prepare myself for what was to come next! I dreaded the thought of being sick again; of fainting; of actually sitting up. 

When I’d done it those few times in physio it had not gone well.  The actual sensation of sitting on your backside when you couldn’t feel it was really strange.  I kept thinking I was floating in mid air that I was about to fall at any moment.  I would hold onto the bench for dear life.  This is until I would be sick or faint.  The therapists had told me that I’d find my balance that I’d be able to sit for longer periods.  That it would all come with time.  I wasn’t so sure, but I had to believe it.

I’d had months to think about how terrible it had all gone and now I had two weeks to get my head round going through it all again.  But this time knowing that it wouldn’t stop; couldn’t stop.  I had to get my life back.  I had to get some form of life back. 

The day of the move arrived.  Everything had been planned.  There’d been phone calls between the two hospitals.  I was told the equipment was in place and the ambulance booked.  I’d written a letter of thanks and given it to the Ward Sister with strict instructions not to open it until after I’d left.  She'd gone round the corner and ripped it open.  Most of the staff had read it before I’d gone.  I was very embarrassed.

I waited for the ambulance.  Then waited some more.  The staff called and were told it was on its way.  Again I waited.  Eventually I was told that there was a chance that I’d be staying another day.  This wasn’t on.  I was mentally ready for rehab.  I had to go.  Thankfully the ambulance finally arrived.

My admission was a farce.  The trolley they wheeled me in on was lower than the bed and could not be raised to the same level.  They had a hoist, but didn’t have a suitable sling.  They’d known for months I was on my way.  They’d known for definite for two weeks of my admission and I’d been assured that all equipment was there.  It wasn’t.  It had been ordered but hadn’t arrived. 

I ended up in a room with what felt like twenty faces, twenty faces I didn’t know and twenty faces that didn’t know me, looking at me and each other wondering what they were going to do.  Suggestions were made and dismissed.  I tried to make my own suggestions but they fell on deaf ears.  At one point there was a suggestion of me going back to the original hospital.  I lay on the trolley for easily an hour before an agreement was made as to how we’d move onto the bed. 

Finally, once in bed and most people departed I was properly introduced to some of the staff, given some food and the admission documented. 

During the admission I was to find out that I was still on bed rest and rehab wasn’t to begin until the wound was fully healed.  In the weeks to come I'd realise that this was what the consultant had meant when she’d mentioned Christmas.  Not that my rehab would be finished, but that it would hopefully begin.   Those weeks preparing had been for nothing.  I’d have more time to think about how I’d not be able to cope with the pressures ahead.

It ended up I was on bed rest for another three months.  Nine months in total.  I went to the rehab hospital on 12 October 2009 and started rehab on 20 January 2010.