I tried to get the nurses to put my hands out directly in front of me, so I can at least see them. I like things to be ordered, to be done properly, the way I do it. I like my face to be washed without soap, because it makes my eyes sting. I did tell the nurses on the first day, but each day there is a new person, and I don’t like to moan because I know how busy they are. Last night I asked a nurse if he could put my hands how I like them, but he said he didn’t have time… I suppose it is a busy ward. I won’t bother them again.

[one month later]

I have been sat in this position for the last four weeks, staring at the same strip light, listening to the same rhythm of footsteps rushing up and down the ward. I have seen 26 nurses, 7 doctors, and uncountable numbers of medical students; I am apparently a very good specimen. The thought of young men seeing my body, especially in its current state, makes me feel quite uncomfortable; I don’t know what my Alf would say if he was alive. But the consultant did say they need to start somewhere, and the hospital has been so good to me. Toileting is my biggest worry. It is all I think about. I have never realized how such a basic day-to-day activity could take over my every waking thought. The whole process is so time consuming, I have to be hoisted over a pan, where I am expected to ‘do my worst’, with the whole ward able to hear every noise I make. I have been trying to eat less, so I don’t have to ‘go’ so often, but it has just made me worse. All I want is some privacy, to be in my own home, with my own friends, in my own bed. I get so frustrated, I still can’t move anything, not even my little finger. I have given up with the physiotherapists, they don’t seen to be able to do anything. I don’t want to get better here, I want to get better at home, where I am comfortable. My neighbour came in today, told me my cherry tree was is full blossom, and that the pond is full of frog spawn. This is the first spring I have been away from home for 40 years. I think I will pretend to be asleep tomorrow, so they will leave me alone…

[fourteen months, twelve days and nine hours later]

It has taken over a year, 10 assessments, 3 chest infections and far too many sleepless nights, but I have done it, I am at home. It’s not quite how I pictured it to be, but it is good enough. The living room is now my bedroom; where the welsh dresser once stood a hoist now looms; a bed pan rests where previously family pictures dominated; and a nurse sleeps in my bed, while I lie on a noisy air filled mattress; it prevents bed sores I am told. At least I now have some movement in my hand, and can even shrug my shoulders, when I have enough energy. The cherry tree is just coming into fruit, and I can see it from my window. It’s small things like that, which makes the difference. My mum always said smiling was the best cure, and that is something I can do here, in my own environment, where I can do things in my own time. Finally I have control of my life, I know I will never walk again, never be able to hug my grandchildren, but at least I am at home, making the best of a bad situation.