The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1803 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Over the next couple of days, I began to breathe more easily, didn’t need oxygen and started to do little things like visit the bathroom by myself. Okay, I was like a toddler walking round the furniture, but it beat using a commode which had been the earlier alternative.

When the nurses weren’t looking, I was doing exercises or walking round my room, which felt like a cell, but I was glad in some respects that I wasn’t in a shared ward, I just didn’t feel like being with people. Quite how I was going to cope when I got home worried me more than I liked to admit.

I still couldn’t concentrate to read–well to understand what I was reading–the mechanical bit of understanding the patterns of words was fine–it was making a meaning from them that I couldn’t be bothered to do. At times I became anxious about it. Okay, I was no Einstein, but I had two degrees and was working towards my doctoral submission–now I wondered if I’d ever finish it. I seemed to have lost my cutting edge and together with my increasing preference for solitude was turning me into a recluse.

When I tried to deal with this rationally, it was obviously due to a generalised weakness, not having the stamina to make my brain work for anything other than basic needs, such as mobility. I’d lost blood and might even be a touch anaemic, which would also add to my weakness and lack of energy. However, the doctors were talking about sending me home and I worried that I wouldn’t cope.

When Simon came in that evening, he met a red eyed weeping mess. Worse than that, I couldn’t tell him what was wrong–that he, along with the rest of humanity, was the problem. I began to wish I’d died, then I’d have been free of the onus of my life and someone else would have had to deal with it. I recognised I was depressed but I didn’t know what to do about it, save one thing, there was no way I was going to take any pills for it.

Simon left me in my incoherence and went to speak with the ward sister. She wasn’t there, so he got the staff nurse in charge and she wasn’t much help either. He left her with a demand to see the consultant the next day, then he came and told me what had happened and hugged me for a while. His visit was shorter than usual and I was glad when he went, sick of myself and angry with myself for being so useless to him. I kept thinking he should have married a proper woman instead of the ersatz one he chose.

I slept badly that night frightened of what would happen the next day. Would they decide I was mentally incompetent and lock me up somewhere? And frighteningly, would that be more pleasant than going home and facing up to my responsibilities?

I realised that over the past few years I’d taken in every waif and stray who’d crossed my path. I’d made a huge rod for my own back and was beginning to regret it. As they seemed to be coping without me, I began to wonder if they’d be better off without me altogether. I started to plan how I’d do it. Strange isn’t it that several people have tried to kill me and failed and now I’m thinking of how I might do it for them? Ironic or what?

The next day, I’d showered because one of the nurses bullied me into doing it. I thought about hanging myself from the shower fitment only to see that it wasn’t strong enough and I had no cord to use–I felt more useless and impotent than ever.

The same nurse bullied me into tidying my hair and dressing in day clothes, though I got my own back–I refused to eat breakfast. I also refused to speak with the doctor who came to see me–I just ignored him, retreating into my own little world. After ten minutes, he gave up and left me in peace. I’d won my first battle though it felt somewhat Pyrrhic in nature.

I think I might have nodded off because suddenly I heard Simon’s voice and he and some other bloke were arguing at times with raised voices. They both kept looking at me so I knew they were talking about me, but I wasn’t interested in hearing what they said.

Suddenly, Simon was pulling at my arm and I was shoved into a wheelchair and he pushed me out of the room and then the ward. He was muttering under his breath, so I don’t think he was very pleased with things. I was left in reception while he went to get the car. I did think about doing a runner, but didn’t have the energy any more than I did to throw myself under the bus that came past the hospital. I felt like I was an object of pity, sitting there in the wheelchair, and went further into myself.

After he manhandled me into the car–my car, by the way–he drove out of the hospital and instead of going to the house we went away from Portsmouth. I wasn’t sure if that pleased or worried me, it was just unexpected.

Then an hour or so later we turned into the clinic where Stella had spent so much time. I wasn’t sure if I felt good or bad about it, I think I just felt detached. I wouldn’t be here much longer, so they could do what they liked.

I was taken to a room, not unlike my hospital room, and very similar to the one Stella had stayed in. Simon hugged and kissed me and left promising to come back very soon. I didn’t really care, I wouldn’t be here anyway.

Some doctor bloke came and I ignored him too, he got fed up and left after telling me he’d soon have me better. I knew differently but wasn’t going to tell him.

I was brought pills and refused to take them. I was brought tea and refused to drink it. I also refused the food they brought. I had no need of food, not where I was going. I refused to change into my nightdress, so they left me alone.

A different doctor came and she tried to talk with me but I refused her any conversation, looking everywhere but at her. She sighed and got up and left. I felt my tummy rumbling and I felt a bit sick with wind, but it would pass–everything would, just a few more hours.

Still sitting in the chair, I tried to remember what of my own possessions I had with me. Nothing very sharp, nor was there a belt of any sort. This might not be as easy as I thought. I checked out the glass by the water jug and it was polythene or another of those unbreakable plastics.

I searched the room, I had nothing there I could use to put my solution into action. I’d have to get out and find a kitchen or somewhere that I could access something sharp or a piece of rope or thick string. That was when I found the door to my room was locked. It was a cell and I was a prisoner.

Unlike Stella’s room, I didn’t have a French window that opened onto the garden, just a window and that only had a fanlight that opened. I really was stuck here and I sat in my chair and wept.