“I am listening to you, I just refuse to accept what you’re saying.” That is not the response I was expecting to I just feel like you aren’t really listening to me. The specialist nurse ignores the points I have made before and am trying to make to her now, and makes me feel stupid and belittled like a naughty schoolchild. My eyes burn with tears. I am angry and utterly defeated at the same time. I long for this to end so hard it is almost a physical ache. I silently will the grim reaper to pay me a visit. She will not listen. She tells me I don’t like what she is saying. In truth, I don’t. Because I may as well have spoken to a wall for the amount of good it has done me. I am the one who nearly dies, not her. I am the one who will pay for her refusal to acknowledge my words. I say yes over and over because I don’t want to fight her. I can’t look at her because I am so hurt by her bluntness, which verges on insensitivity. I can’t talk because I am gulping back sobs. She suggests it is my fault that I become unwell, that she is suggesting things (WHICH WORK IN TYPICAL CASES) but that it is up to me whether I do them or not, and even goes as far as to suggest that my London doctor gave me a decision because he gave up trying to tell me any different. She has no idea about him. I am so angry, so hurt. I am never coming back here. I never want to look at you again you aren’t listening! She refuses to recommend a dosage of medication to do in an emergency because if it doesn’t work I will apparently tell people that I just did what the nurse told me to do. I cannot do what she is telling me to. She misunderstood me earlier when I tried to explain the problems her theory caused.
She decides that next week she is going to start me on a new medication which nearly killed me last time I tried it outside of a hospital, and didn’t work effectively when we tried it in hospital. She won’t listen to this. And despite this, she says she is going to start me on a lower dose. I feel I have no choice in the matter. inside I am breaking down. I won’t say any more. She made me so… I can’t even…
When she leaves I break down. I am sat on the edge of the bed and my body folds up on itself, sobbing so hard it feels like I am laughing. I can’t breathe in. I am howling with no sound and tears run down my face and I can’t stop. My head is on my knees. I pull my hood up and over my eyes and for half an hour I stay like this. Sobbing, gulping for breath and sobbing again in that weird laughing motion until I’ve breathed so far out that my chest hurts and feels weird. Every time I pause, exhausted, I think to the conversation and there comes another silent roar into my hands. There is no sound, other than the occasional squeak that slips out unexpectedly. I give up then, I resign.
I talked to the ward sister earlier and she just apologised. I cannot talk now. I can only cry. The henchman doctor walks in to take out my femoral line. I try to tell him why I’ve been crying and go off again for another ten minutes until I think I’m going to throw up and I’ve cried so much my eyes sting. He tries to defend his colleague. I feel like an idiot. Eventually he breaks a little and sympathises. The ward sister comes back. She apologises to me yet again. I tell her I’m sorry for being so pathetic over nothing. She tells me it isn’t nothing, it’s a lot, and I’m allowed to react the way I have. I take out the cannula in my hand. I pack my bag. Just as I do so, Bastille’s new song (Good Grief) starts playing on the radio by the main nurses’ station. Bastille – back at it again with the saving me from my hospital freak outs. Right in my worst moments, their songs seem to get played on the radio (Pompeii and the ambulance home from London?). I figured out how to stop crying and breathe.
On the way back to my parents’, we stop to vote in the EU referendum. Our whole village is all wandering to the same place. It’s weird to see everyone come together yet remain so distant – people I went to school with and their parents don’t give me a second look. It’s also weird that so many people waited until almost 9pm to vote, and tat it is still so light out. I limp into the polling station, my groin burning where the central line and the (thankfully loose, at my request) stitches that held it in place have been removed. It flushes warm as I walk back to the car, my hospital wristband still on – it is bleeding. It sears as I sit down.
When I walk in the front door, rather than going hyper and charging around the house, my dog sits still and refuses to move. He looks at me and sits there and whines and groans. I stroke him. He wags his tail furiously but knows he can’t jump on my lap.
I am with my dog. And nothing feels ok. Even he cannot comfort me. I feel hopeless and afraid to contact anyone about this health hiccup because of what the specialist nurse said to me. I am on the edge of something – what that something is, I don’t know. I am not going back to that hospital again, I will get on a train to London even if it means dying on a train. But now she has spoken to London. Will he try? Will anyone try? Will she even listen to him? He will side with her and say I am the issue, won’t he? Even though he said differently… She burned a bridge that was only just starting to be built and she has put me off of all hospitals. I will not call an ambulance now. I will not answer my phone to her or to any doctors. I will see my cardiologist and only him, because he is the only one who had always treated me like a human being equal to him. I am reacting very emotionally and I want it to pass soon so rational thought can kick in.
There is no fight. I am drifting. Driftwood. Aimless, hopeless, useless, looked down upon, rotten (or at least made to feel that way) driftwood. If anything happens to me the nurse will just blame me, so why even seek help again?
Because there is no other way, and this is just anger and hopelessness talking.
Tomorrow, a new day will begin again, and I with it.