The Blurred Line

Day 27 - It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," the immortal words of Charles Dickens were greatly relevant today. Also I warn you that a lot happened yesterday so this might be a longer one than my already long usual posts.

In the early hours of the morning, I was the most vulnerable I have felt in this whole ordeal if not my whole life. I woke up at 3am desperate for the toilet and knew something was going on vaguely to my right as the light was on. I pressed the called button and asked the HCA (bank) who appeared if I could go to the toilet, please. She gave me the dirtiest look that made me feel so very small and said, "You could have got me when she did it." I tried to say, "I'm sorry I was asleep and I wear ear plugs" but thankfully Hope came to look at my antibiotics anyways so could help me onto the commode which was beside me anyway.

It wasn't necessarily what she said but it just that look. I was inconveniencing her by no going to toilet when another lady went so she couldn't kill two birds with one stone. I literally couldn't believe it. I felt like I should have to apologise for needing a wee and for needing help. I've been looked after and treated so well and then this lady comes along and makes me - who has lost my leg so can't transfer onto the commode myself yet, who never wanted to make the choice to amputate my leg, who would happily walk to the toilet if I could to prevent inconveniencing her and who has been through too bloody much to on top of all that to have such a look – feel like I am not worthy of being the dirt on her shoe.

I suddenly felt so sorry for all the old people that experience that same look. It made me cry while Hope left me for a couple of minutes but I have the hope and the knowledge that I'm going to go home soon and I'm going to get stronger. For somebody in a care home without either of these things, I just feel so sorry for them because I can only glimpse at what that life might be life. Nobody deserves to be looked at or treated like that – an inconvenience.

Anyways, Hope came to rescue, both literally and figuratively, and managed to get out of me what was wrong (I started off saying that it was fine and it didn't matter). She apologised profusely but she had looked after me so well she had no need to apologise. She stopped me crying and left me after I refused 4 or 5 times. The nurse in charge, Louise, came in and apologised again. She said they all loved me very much, which made me cry again almost as much. She said that Hope was very upset (with the HCA), which I said sorry for, and that I should stop saying sorry for everything.

The HCA, who I had just told on, came back not long after to apologise – sort of. She wanted me to forgive her and I did – sort of. I just kept thinking why does she have to be here? Why can't she go away? I don't want her here. She said, "but you could hear me in the other bay." I showed her that I wear ear plugs and she seemed only really sorry that she didn't realise I was wearing ear plugs and didn't hear her. Whether or not I had heard her, she had no right to be so indignant, especially when this is the job she is being paid for and even more especially when she has chosen nursing – a profession that by definition is entrusted with the care of vulnerable people.

I hope she reads this, or is shown it, and will realise what she has done and how we, the patients feel. We are so dependent on mainly the HCAs and nurses for not just our wellbeing but also our survival. There have been times I couldn't feed myself from pure exhaustion but nobody let me starve and all the way through I haven't been able to use the toilet without assistance but nobody has let me develop an infection because I have been left in my own waste though perhaps I have been lucky in both respects. All of these things are humiliating enough not to be able to do myself without feeling ashamed and sorry to ask for help also. We are human being too and have our pride.

Mum was better today and back – thankfully.

I had a PICC – peripherally inserted central cannula – line inserted at about 11am by the really lovely Lindsey, the vascular access nurse. A PICC line is a really long cannula with one end sticking out my arm and the other in the superior vena cava in my heart. It is a more permanent cannula so that I can have drugs administered to me by the district nurses when I am at home. Lindsey used an ultrasound beforehand to find the vein she wanted in my arm – the basilic vein.