Dear Royal Berks,
If I wrote you a letter every time I walked through your
doors, I think you’d have to create a room solely dedicated to my ‘fan-mail’…fan
in the casual sense, you understand? Not in the same way I’d use to describe my
view towards chocolate cake or a good book. Yet I still use that word. And I’ll
tell you why. It doesn’t matter how many times I walk through those A&E
doors, collapse in a chair, drag myself into one room, then another…and
another. Into one bed, onto a chair, in for an x-ray, back into bed, drips
attached, blood taken, questions asked and finally: onto a ward. It doesn’t
matter how many times I do it but every time you manage to fix me. Sometimes it
just takes a drip, many wires, some fluid and some wonderfully effective pain
killers, two days bed-rest and then I’m home. In fact, most of the time, that
is all it takes. Well, I say ‘all’. Nobody has ever had to do anything too drastic
to relieve my situation. Nurses and doctors alike have poked and prodded,
tested my pulse, blood pressure, temperature. They’ve only ever done what
needed to be done in the moment, on that particular occasion, to help me.
That is why I wanted to write and thank you. Two weeks ago, I
shuffled through your doors bright and early on a Tuesday morning just as the
staff were taking off their coats. I went through the fun and games of symptom
describing, question answering and finally drip attaching. I was x-rayed and
taken to a ward. I had two days of lovely nurses and doctors trying to find the
best way of fixing me. Normally, here’s where I’d go home. I didn’t. I cried
because they wanted to try and solve the problem with a procedure I was scared
of. They talked to me. They comforted me. They gave it go. I failed. The fear took
over so the moment passed. Yet they didn’t give up there. They tried to keep me
away from the last resort, knowing it wasn’t ideal. They tried the morphine,
the funky tasting fluids. They scanned me and a decision was made. An operation
was inevitable. I mean, they give you a choice, you have to sign a form, but the
choices were really:
Yes
Or
Apologies: no other option available at this time
Now you don’t know me that well. Or you probably don’t. So
many people pass through your doors every day, I understand you’re unlikely to
know the details of my life. So here’s a little insight into my character. I
worry. A lot. Big things or small,
anxiety kicks in. This day was no exception. I worried about the anesthetic,
about it not working or something going wrong, I worried about the operation
and the many, many, many different possible eventualities that the doctor
legally had to warn me about…twice.
Yet, despite all the worry, what I’d like to say Royal Berks, is that I got
through it. You, and your team of wonderful, smiling, funny nurses, doctors,
green coats, blue coats, white coats, did exactly what they knew they had to do.
They talked me through it beforehand and comforted and relieved me of my
worries once it was all over. One nurse, a student, stayed with me for almost
the entire last hour of her shift just to calm me down and let me know I’d be
ok. That same nurse came and found me one week later, the day before I was
discharged, just to chat and find out how I was doing. It’s the little things
you see. It’s the fact that when, after my operation, I was moved onto another
ward, far away from the one with the faces and smiles that I knew, one of those
familiar faces called up just to ask if they could have me back. It’s the fact
that people listened and that less than 24 hours later, I was returned to where
I felt most comfortable.
There are times when I know my anxiety is annoying, not just
for me, but for those around me. Yet, what I love about you, is that when I worry,
most often unnecessarily so, there’s always someone there to listen and to
dispel my fears. At one point I was so scared that, by laughing, I would hurt
my scar. That I would do something terrible to my tummy and something scary
would have to be done. Another operation…more scars. All because I had a bit of
giggle. So what did the nurses do? They sat with me and told me to laugh to my
hearts content. Only hours after having my plaster changed, a nurse went as far
as to repeat the whole procedure just to prove to me that I could do myself no
harm. Now that is kind. That is something I want to thank you
for.
It’s not just you either, it’s the other patients too. The
lady opposite me before my operation who wished me luck and told me she’d see
me afterwards. A lady who it later turned out shared a part of her life with
me. A connection to Leighton Park, the best 5 years of my education to date.
This, the same lady who came to see me while her husband waited patiently to
take her home after so long without her. Who stayed and chatted and shared
memories of a place we both care about greatly. Then there was the lady in the
bed opposite me after the operation and the lady beside me days later. Both
constantly caring about how those around them were feeling. I could guarantee
each time I left or returned to my bed, that as I passed by her, she would ask
how I was doing. As I say, it’s the little things.
When I was sitting more upright in my bed, in front of
nurses who’d seen me the day I’d arrived, it was the positivity they showed. Their
kind observations about how much better I looked: healthier, happier. I can’t
say I felt it quite at the time but now I’m home and walking around. I’m
looking at this new line on my tummy and noting the different way I’m walking
and feeling. Even though I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking back on the
last few weeks and wishing I could go back. To a time before the hospital and
the decision, the need, to operate, to intervene. Even though I’ve wanted
countless times to go back and for none of it to have happened. For there to be
no new scar and no slight wobble in my walk. Despite all this, I know that it
will all get better. I know that people are right when they say, in a couple of
months, I’ll be able to put it all behind me. I’ll go to Uni, to London and
move on with my life.
So I’m just hoping that the hug I received from the lovely
nurse on my ward, almost a week ago today, was a last. That this will be the
start of a new time, a chapter with perhaps less visits through your welcoming
doors.
I mean…I like you,
don’t get me wrong. I just think we need some space. For a long, long while.
Yours Gratefully (and a little regretfully),
