(RVI Hospital, age 13)
I woke early. Or perhaps I hadn’t really slept. The ward never fully settles—there is always someone in pain, some unseen voice in distress, a presence you never quite locate. I am in a private room, but not separate from it.
The nurses wash me. I am not especially self-conscious. I am in their hands—literally. It is matter-of-fact to them. To me, it is something else. There is a moment when they change the sheet beneath me, lift me, turn me, and I am aware of being reduced—infant-like, compliant, handled. The water is warm, the soap clinical. Their voices are calm, routine, female. I am used to male instruction. This is different.
I use a commode and a bottle. There is no dignity in it, but also no choice. I am tired, groggy, and in constant pain from my broken leg. The day stretches. Food arrives too early, at odd times, and I have nothing to do. Nothing to read. No control over anything.
I want to leave.
I call for pain relief but they can offer nothing.
Mum comes. It is her first visit since I’ve been admitted. She says she will bring a portable television—something we would never have had at home. It is to come from Aunty Shirley. The idea of it—three channels, something to look at, something to fill the time—feels like relief, or at least interruption.
I don’t hear from Dad. He doesn’t come. He rarely went out of his way. But he should have made the effort.
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