Friday, 2 December 2011

And so the waiting begins...

God, I'm bored.

They say the waiting is the worst part, although they never say of what. So I'm filling in and deciding that at the moment it's the worst part of looking at a weekend stretching ahead into a singularity of monotony as I hang around waiting to be demobbed, probably on Monday, with all of the rest of today, all of Saturday and all of Sunday to go.

God, I'm bored. I'm not a patient patient.

No-one mentioned that when they whipped the tumour out, they'd also be putting some tedium in.

Still, I'm not in much pain. Yesterday's early afternoon opiate largesse declined sharply to paracetamol by teatime and has stayed resolutely there since, but I don't honestly think I need anything stronger. Just something to keep me occupied.

And there have been some distractions. The sight of the old boy opposite climbing back into bed via the cotbar side while only vaguely wearing a hospital gown was a horribly regular and regularly horrible break from routine for most of yesterday evening. And his later ongoing escape attempts made sure there wasn't much of that dull sleeping nonsense going on last night.

The 3am catheter removal helped with that as well.

The nurses need know we're sleeping naturally, and wake us up to do that. I'm getting used to just slipping into that warm embrace only to be roused to be asked if I know where I am and who the Prime Minister is (so far I've used his Sunday name, but as long as I remember it begins with 'C' I'm pretty sure I'll be close enough) but waking me to hoick out my tubing did seem at the time a little above and beyond the call. Not to mention deeply, deeply unnatural and wrong. There is a story there, but it's not for here. Maybe for the pub - it's going to need alcohol.

Weirdly, once the full bustle of the morning ward kicked in at about 6.30am, I found it much easier to sleep. Possibly because I'd stopped shuddering and thinking about the catheter. Not to mention the Prime Minister.

So I got the few hours I needed, but then it was wakey-wakey time again with nothing to do. There are only so many times you can read a paper - I even considered going for the sports section, but I remembered I have standards - and even the blessed, unspeakable pleasure of being returned your own bladder wears a bit thin after a while.

Anyway, the day has now passed with a lot of pointless internet browsing, a wee walk up the stairs with a couple of nice-but-tiny physiotherapists who'd have had no chance of catching me even between them had I suddenly dropped, a visit from my parents and another from Clare.

I've moved rooms, now, to one apparently without escape artists, so I should get some sleep tonight. And it's quiet at the moment as everyone's off to watch the Da Vinci Code on the telly and I'm sitting here writing this and listening to a bloke having his own catheter fitted.

See? Standards.

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