I was really getting sick of the whole not sleeping thing. It was 2.30am and all wasn’t quite well on the CCU. Earlier in the week I had been told I had to wear surgical stockings to help prevent DVTs, or blood clots for those of you less well versed in hospital acronyms. Now I’m a very retro girl and I love anything vintage. I’ll wear garters and stockings far far quicker than I’ll put on a pair of tights, but these are not your average stockings. These are boa constrictor tight, itchy as hell and bright raging green. Even worse, I wasn’t allowed to take them off...ever.
After 3 days of non-stop usage, I’d had enough. The itching was driving me crazy, so I did the one thing I try never to do. I pushed the nurses call button and waited for that soft shoed angel to appear. After a few minutes of explaining, and whinging, and alright, out and out pleading, she finally agreed to let me take the instruments of torture off for an hour or two and I finally got some sleep.
Morning broke with the usual blood pressure and temperature rounds, and I had to put the evil stockings on again, but at least this time I had two hours sleep to fortify me. I waited patiently for the drug round and my morning cocktail of tablets to swallow down. As the nurse dispensed my goodies she informed me that I was being moved again. Again! Dear god it was like musical beds in this place! I was heading back to ward 16 again. OK, so I’d just gotten comfy, but this was a good thing. This meant I was getting better right? Surely this had to mean that I would get some answers soon?
This time my transfer was by wheelchair and I was getting used to the length of corridor between the two wards. A short hop later and I was pushed down the ward to see Emma waving at me. She was pointing at the empty bed beside her and calling ‘Here! Put her here!’ Thank god they did put us back together, and we took a few minutes to catch up on the few hours we’d been apart. Yes I know that sounds sad, and like some sort of old married couple, but hell, there was bugger all else to keep us sane except for each other.
I glanced around my new abode to take stock of my new neighbours and had to do a double take. Surely God wouldn’t be that cruel? Nope, he or she was, and there facing me were the screamer and the foul-mouthed old lady from the first ward I had been on. Give the staff their due, the screamer looked loads better and was even sitting in a chair beside the bed, but in the bed beside her, Lil Miss Sweary was dozing away.
I soon learnt that this was a routine. Sweary would sleep all day, bitching at the nurses when they woke her for meals or the obs rounds, then wake about 7pm and talk all damn night. I say talk, but what I really mean, is talk, sing, cry, shout and obviously, swear. All night long! The doctors prescribed her a sleeping tablet, but it didn’t work. So the rest of us asked for sleeping tablets...and were refused. How in the hell was anyone meant to rest in this madhouse?
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