A Work In Progress

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I have something called ‘Osteosarcoma’. That’s bone cancer to you and I. It means that most of my life has been spent being poked and prodded by numerous doctors while accompanied by the monotonous sound of hospital equipment. My family used to visit regularly, but recently they had stopped. I can’t lie to you reader and say that I was annoyed at this fact because in some ways I preferred it that way. My condition had worsened in those few weeks; everything seemed to go too slowly. It’s incredible where the mind takes you when you feel at your worst. While some look at all the positives; I tend to only see the long list of regrets that had built up slowly over the course of my 18 years. I suppose that it’s easier to come to terms with one’s fate when you are alone.

Hospital was never too scary for me; in fact it had almost become a kind of home away from home. The doctors knew me on a first name basis and I them. My room was simple, just how I liked it. The walls were a humble cream with a few dots of random artwork that supposedly were meant to make the patients happier. How a balloon floating in a strange abstract sunset could make me feel enlightened I wasn’t entirely sure, however I won’t judge you reader if you suddenly felt a rush of elation as a result of my description of that painting.

My room was one of the many twin rooms in the ward. I still had four complete walls however a small door linked both my room and the one adjacent. I believed that I had definitely secured the superior room, with its double windows looking out onto the park below the building. Many times I had watched patients being walked onto that park, arm in arm with a nurse or attached to one of those mobile drips. When I first came to the hospital I envied those patients, able to experience the outside world freely, well as freely as you can be as a patient. My views soon changed though, especially when hot lazy summer days turned into cold chilling winter evenings where the sun never seemed to stay around long enough. My bed was definitely the best place to be on days like those, and anyway, who would want to be dragged along the grass by a nurse who was clearly too optimistic for their own good. Don’t get me wrong I loved most of the nurses there, but sometimes their chirpiness can have the opposite effect to us here on the ward.

One nurse I knew quite well, Sylvia was her name. We met on my third long term stay at the hospital. She was a large lady with a head full of ginger ringlets. A pair of stylish Louis Vuitton glasses framed her eyes which lit up when she used to see the untouched dark chocolate biscuits that always featured on my tray in the evening.  She has a daughter my age; she often used to say to me that I was like her second daughter if you forgot my dark brown hair and green eyes.  You could say that Sylvia was my only real friend in the building. It was to her that I confided all my secrets and thoughts. We’d giggle about the good looking medical students that had just joined the ward and talk for hours about nothing. Her favourite subject was always the lack of stylish clothing in M&S every year. I had told her to shop elsewhere but she insisted that it would get better the following season.

It was sad when she left. She got transferred to another hospital about 20 miles away somewhere up north. I forget the place. Initially we tried to stay in contact, we’d write letters and use Skype but surely enough time and distance got the better of us and we ceased contact. Life got quite lonely after that. All the new nurses were too fresh, not yet relaxed enough to stray from regular duties. Next-door neighbours rarely stayed long. A couple of them I had become acquainted to. There was an elderly man called Peter who had had an incredible sense of humour and had been a favourite amongst the ladies and nurses. Often we’d have conversations when the door had been left slightly open. He told me all about his life, how he worked in the RAF fixing fighter jets and how he got into all kinds of mischief during his service there.  I remember hearing his laugh more than anything. Even in the dead of night I would sometimes hear him chuckle away to himself. I always wanted to know what made him so happy; if it was a kind of medicine I sure wanted some myself. But I suppose that the word long-term doesn’t really apply within a hospital, well not when in the context of friendship anyway. Peter didn’t stay forever he was soon released back into the world, ready to cause yet more mayhem wherever he ended up next.  I never found out what made him so happy but I swore to myself that one day I would be able to feel the same kind of happiness.

The room had been vacant for many months following Peter’s discharge from hospital. Cleaners still came and cleaned it; frequently they would rush past my bedside sometimes exchanging a nod of acknowledgement before darting into the adjoining room. About half an hour would pass during which sounds of scrubbing, sheet changing and airing would fill the open air. Then all would go silent as they each scurried away like ants to their next job. It was in those times where I could see the true separation, the barrier between those like myself and the outside world. They were free, free to wonder in and out, leaving the sickness and the worry behind as they packed up and left, whereas we were stuck, maybe not physically but forever mentally. We remained in a vicious circle of worry, hope and disappointment, well I suppose I can’t speak for everyone but I certainly knew that this was true for me.

With all of this going on you wouldn’t expect many exciting things to happen here, and if you were thinking that reader then yes you are truly right there. Excitement was a rare as having a hot, sunny day in England during winter. Every so often there would be a birthday, something the nurses leapt on for dear life. Balloons would be out at the crack of dawn followed by frequent renditions of ‘Happy Birthday’ ringing down the halls which always meant cake was soon to appear. In some of the earlier rooms I used to have I would be close to these small celebrations, and to be totally honest it did inject some much needed happiness into the gloomy days. Since moving to my new accommodation it hadn’t been so lively. Well I say that reader but I may be lying. There was something to happen while I was in that shared room, something that I shall never forget for the rest of my life and an experience that I hope to share with you.