Time to Go Home

It was Friday and what I was hoping would be my last day in the hospital. My roommate had also been told that she may be able to go home on this day, and when we awoke that morning we greeted each other with optimistic smiles and crossed our fingers.

During my week in the new room, friends came and visited me nearly every day; visitors who all came with stories and who were all bearing gifts. One day, my friend who was heavily pregnant at the time, came to visit. She shuffled radiantly into my room, carrying an enormous and beautiful tropical-looking plant. She is only a small lady, and I could barely see her behind the long green leaves, and the red cellophane wrap which surrounded the plant. She made me giggle with stories about her pregnancy. She was only a couple of weeks away from her due date, and she told me how she felt like her hands and feet were so swollen that they resembled pig’s trotters! She also spoke about the various methods she had been trying in order to go into labour, and how she was going to start drinking some special herbal tea that she hoped would lead to a successful result.  After chatting for a long time, we said goodbye; both wishing the other well with the new challenges life was going to bring. Another friend, who I have worked closely with for around 2 years, came to see me with her husband. This friend is much taller than me, and she gives the best hugs. When she entered the room, she enveloped me in her comforting embrace. She lives outside of the city, and she brought me figs from her garden and told me all about what had been going on at the school I work at. On Thursday evening, two other colleagues came to visit; one Italian and the other Spanish. They brought me a big card with drawings from all the children in my class, and it made me feel sad to not be able to be there with them. Again these friends told me about more news from my school, and updated me on how the children in my class were doing.

Whilst in hospital I had been desperately looking forward to normal everyday life. My boyfriend and I had talked about what I would do when I got home: take a long shower, put on clean pyjamas, eat spaghetti, go for a walk in the sunshine, watch a film together, have a cup of tea, eat Marmite on toast, sleep in my own bed… The normal seemed so exotic to me now!

My roommate showered promptly that morning. Her doctor visited the room early and I could hear him making preparations for her departure. I felt so happy for her. After the doctor had gone, she went to our cupboard and took out some clothes. Shortly she emerged from our bathroom, in a fitted flowery dress, and looking revitalized. I had to wait to be disconnected from the IV machine, and then I went to have a consultation with a specialist. It was the same specialist I had seen on Monday. There had been no improvement in my situation. I still couldn’t hear in my left ear, and I was also finding loud noises uncomfortable, and was experiencing tinnitus and fullness of pressure in my ear. I was told that I would need to take Prednisone (a type of corticosteroid) for four weeks, in decreasing doses each week. I would also continue with the intratympanic steroid treatment of having injections in my ear, every Tuesday for three more weeks, and I would need to make an appointment for an MRI scan. I was still hopeful that the medicine would start to work in tablet form, and the thought of being able to properly relax and rest in my own home also made me optimistic for a recovery. When I got back to the room, I quickly showered and put on the grey dress that I had worn a week ago when I was admitted. It felt great to be wearing normal clothes. Soon after, I was again attached to the IV medication and I waited, sitting on my bed, for my paperwork to arrive and to indicate my time to go home. I waited for a few hours. I said goodbye to my roommate and we gave each other a hug and wished each other a quick recovery.  It wasn’t too long before I was walking to a taxi, holding on to my boyfriend with relief. It seemed so bright outside. Very soon I was home.

Two weeks later it was the day of my MRI appointment and I received a message from my friend. She wrote that today we would both be in hospital. Beneath her message was a photo of my friend with a joyful smile, in a hospital gown, waiting for her baby to arrive.

New Medication

My first night in the room was an upsetting one and I felt like I was also imposing my distress on my roommate. In the early evening, a nurse entered our room with a small, cubic-shaped machine and an intravenous stand; which looked like a cheap metal, unembellished hat stand. What I understood from what she told me in Spanish, and what her actions were telling me, was that she would be giving me some medication which involved the machine. The medication I’d previously been given had not required a machine, so I was puzzled at its presence. She proceeded to attach the machine to the stand, tightening a clamp at the back, and then clumsily secured an IV line to my arm; passing this thin plastic tube through a gap in the machine. She attached a small brown glass bottle of corticosteroid liquid to the top of the stand, and told me to press the emergency call button to alert her if the machine made a beeping sound. Within a few minutes, the beeping started. As instructed, I pressed the red button that was attached to a cord next to my bed. ‘Beep Beep Beep…’ With each Beep, I felt more and more awkward as I was certain I was disturbing my roommate. The nurse came back to the room to see what the problem was. She had short brown wavy hair and wore red glasses. Her glasses were on a string around her neck that she kept taking on and off in order to look at the machine, scrunching her face into an unnerving expression. She straightened out the IV line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and again told me to call her if the machine beeped. A few minutes later, ‘Beep Beep Beep’. Again I pressed the little red button, and again I felt concerned about disturbing the calmness in the room. This time the nurse took longer to return, and my roommate asked me if I had pressed the call button. I reassured her that I had. Back came the nurse, looking even more frustrated. Fumbling with her glasses again, she straightened out the IV line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and yet again told me to call her if the machine beeped. The third time it beeped, the nurse entered the room looking puzzled and exasperated, and this time she decided that it was a problem with the intravenous line in my arm. She then proceeded to check my arm for more suitable veins; taking her glasses off and putting them back on, to be certain of her choice. She decided on a rather uncomfortable location where my wrist meets my hand, just down from my left thumb. I turned my head so as not to watch her make the initial puncture in my skin, and tensed my face as I felt her awkwardly insert the IV line. She taped the tube to my arm, and again straightened out the line and then fed it back through the machine, pressed a button, and yet again told me to call her if the machine beeped. Once she had left the room, and the machine had been quiet for a few minutes, I lay back on my bed and tried to relax. Since the medication bottle was small, I naively expected its contents to have been transferred into my body quite quickly, and then I assumed it would be unattached from my arm and I would be able to sleep comfortably. However, I soon realized that every few minutes when the machine made a mechanical clicking sound, only the tiniest of drops was released into the tube, and into my arm. I fell asleep, thinking that I would call a nurse when the bottle had finished, so they could disconnect me. An hour or so later, I awoke with an acidic stinging sensation in my arm. My arm had started to become swollen just above the line entrance, where the unpleasant liquid was entering my body. With every tiny drop, came more pain. I lay there, drifting in and out of uncomfortable sleep, until around 4am, when the machine finally beeped to signal the emptiness of the bottle. After only a couple of beeps, in came another nurse. This time it was a short, middle-aged man, with a calm and friendly nature, and who entered the room with a torch in his mouth, so as not to disturb us with the room lights. I told him I was in pain, and his demeanour seemed to suggest that this was normal, although I was very tired by this point, and could not focus on what he was telling me in Spanish. As he removed the tube from the bottle, I heaved a sigh of relief. But a second later, to my dismay, he attached another identical bottle to the line, straightened out the line and then fed it back through the machine and pressed the button to turn it back on.

By the second night, my arm was so swollen from the excruciating buildup of medication that the nurses had to try two more IV locations in my other arm, and I also finally ended up getting a different machine.