I am quite sketchy about events during this period, but I'm fairly sure that Saturday probably started in much the same way as the previous day:
Breakfast, tablets and a wash given by one of the nurses. How frustrating and humiliating to have someone not only to assist, but to have to actually wash you and help you on and off the dreaded bedpans.
Mid-morning drink, lunch, mid-afternoon drink, evening meal and bedtime drink interspersed with drugs from the trolley, which I soon christened the "sweetie trolley". This was the daily routine of fodder.
My husband seemed to be with me from early morning to late at night right from the very beginning - how was HE coping? Who was looking after him?
My immediate family travelled to be with me and what a choker it was to see all 5 of them arrive at the Unit late on the Friday evening. I saw them walk towards the Unit, 5 abreast, and it reminded me of a scene from a cowboy film as they walk towards Saloon for a shootout!
Saturday and Sunday seemed manic. Loads of visitors - family, friends and work colleagues, some of whom had travelled great distances to visit. By now the Unit was looking like a flower shop with bouquets, arrangements and all manner of gifts arriving. All for me - and I could barely speak and was rather confused and all over the place. I could see these people but apart from acknowledging them could do precious little.
Monday morning seemed so flat after the friendly faces of the previous days. Who would I see today? Would there be any more treatment or would I just stay in bed again? How frustrating that I had no control over my body. I thought that I was a decent person what did I do so bad to deserve this? Had I not had enough in my little life? All the thoughts kept whizzing around but to what purpose? The more I thought the more that my head began to "knock".
Then - I could see my youngest son walking into the Unit. He couldn't go to work as he "could not concentrate". A tearjerker of a moment.
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