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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I was lying on the bed in the physio department today, legs in the air propped up by a large orange ball, half heartedly bending, stretching and clenching (in that order) because it was quite early in the morning and I am not, as is well documented, a morning person. I am a very late night person. I can bend, stretch and clench as much as is required late into the night, and still be able to carry on, but early in the morning it's not the thing for me. But I was gamely trying, because I really quite like my physiotherapist since she loomed above me on our second meeting and said the immortal words "You are going to get better, you know", and made me want to cry.

My physio was off with another patient, walking him back to the ward from whence he came, and I was left to bend, clench, stretch, clench and repeat while breathing and staring at the ceiling. On the bed next to me, curtained off for privacy, was a new patient and a physio going through the initial assessment we all go through when first seeing physios - the one that simultaneously depresses you and makes you hate the physio more than anyone you can ever imagine. The poor guy seemed to be having a hard time getting it together after having a stroke. He was coughing quite a bit, and the physio offered to help him out by putting his name down for a special service the physios provide for in-patients in the hospital - special therapy to help them shift their phlegm. She then asked him to take off his shirt, and again he sounded like he was having some trouble. She asked what the plaster on his arm was. He, sounding more depressed than ever, replied that it was a nicotine patch.

On the bed on the other side of me, a lady was sitting with a great big grin on her face, studying my every movement and swinging her one leg off the bed while the other stump hung stiffly beside it. She greeted every member of staff who walked past by name and then carried on murmuring under her voice while staring at me and my preposterous rubber ball. A nurse approached her carrying a piece of paper, and explained to her that they were collecting signatures so that the hospital could have a smoking room added for the patients. It's not fair, the nurse explained, that patients aren't allowed to leave the wards after 9pm when the night shift come on, because then they're left hanging until the next morning to get out for a fag. The lady with one leg signed enthusiastically, although the nurse had to hold the paper steady for her due to her severe left sided weakness. The lady thanked the nurse profusely when she was finished, and asked her how she knew she was a smoker. The nurse gave her a little wink and left.

Now. I'm not crazy anti-smoker. I've smoked in my time. I've even smoked in the last couple of days. All smokers know that they're cool, that they look cool, that they are the essence of everything cool. I'd agree with that, after a couple of pints and my reservations are down. A cigarette is especially lovely when you're upset or in pain.

But I'd like to think that the day I can't shift the phlegm out of my lungs on my own is the day that I quit smoking. The day I wake up paralysed down one side of my body thanks to the clot in my brain caused by smoking is the day I quit smoking. The day I wake up and a limb has been lopped off due to the clot in my heart that blocked off the blood vessels down to my leg that was caused by smoking is the day I quit. I've quit in anticipation of that day. And I do think that a hospital is the ideal place for someone to start, oh, I don't know, considering the possibility that maybe they should quit. Especially when you're being battered and bruised by lovely physiotherapists who are just trying to help you to stand up again, or walk straight again, or just plain cough again.

This blog entry was brought to you by Shazzle, very very tired after 2 hours in the gym with physiotherapists shouting instructions about keeping arms straight and shoulders down and buttocks clenched and chin up and CLENCH, ALWAYS CLENCH!

This entry was posted on 27 April 2004 at 4:55 pm. 0 comments

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