I woke up thirsty and hungry but elated. I have remembered the five digit pin number and the exercise initiated my brain training. I had to train my brain to remember things. To do things. To feel things. I greeted my husband with the largest smile my face could conjure. He laughed and asked what the occasion was. I started to mouth the numbers, my voice was still missing in action, and he sprang to life. He noticed my somewhat cheerful disposition and started to tell me what exactly happened to me. He tells me that I had to be intubated for no oxygen was going to my lungs, they did this via my neck. He also tells me that I have had four blood transfusions and three operations. The c-section to remove the borg had been re-opened. Exploratory surgery had also been done baring an incision from my belly button down to my nether regions. Two drains were inserted into my tummy to remove residual blood and tissue. I longed to inspect my battle scars but movement still failed me. The gravity of it will only set in once I have seen these wounds. A doctor and nurse enters my room speaking generic words of encouragement and well wishes. Let it be. They are making preparations for me to be moved out of my fortress of solitude. I am also to be put  on a liquid diet of cereals, fruit juice, tea and soups. My body shivers with delight and I want to embrace this doctor. Food, glorious food! They all leave and I am left with two black spots, this perverse ensemble of red and pink next to my bed which I still cannot make sense of and thoughts of what my first slurp of food would be like.

I wake up to a nurse fiddling with my machinery. This has become the norm nowadays. She spits some awful religious bullshit at me and attempts to console my clear irritation with a crooked smile. Several other nurses come in and start preparing to have my bed moved to the outer regions of my selected prison. They each have one of the many bags attached to my body in hand. The urine bag makes me cringe as I realise that this lady has to cart my human waste… The second one holds up a bag of dark blood. This liquid is draining from my tummy. The third is a bright red bag of blood; I am mid-transfusion perhaps? Another one? Five transfusions? All of the drips attached to me are on a metal stand of sorts. Murky white – platelets, bright green – nutrients, brownish yellow – medication, transparent ooze – salt water probably… There are many more. I had no clue. All of these bags and machines and needles… Attached to me. We move slowly out of the room and the two black spots fizzle away. I am confused. Were they ever on the wall? I have no time to grasp their relevance. I see… Other patients. They’re old. Wrinkly. Yet they look at me with apologetic eyes. One of my nurses tells me that I have been in here the longest so far. Patients have come and gone, spending a week tops in ICU but yet I remained. I was the illusive young mother in a chamber of isolation. I felt their pity rain down on me and I felt heavy but I was glad for a change of scenery. I was wheeled into my corner and this is where I stayed.

Where is my food? A nurse comes over with a bowl of chocolate Maltabella porridge. It smells… nice and I can’t wait to devour it. If only my hands would move. She starts to feed me. The first spoonful smelled wonderful but tasted like I was eating a rotting, burned down wall of a house from the 1940s. I cringe but she doesn’t notice. She is rambling on about her husband’s new business venture. She shoves another spoonful into my mouth. I barely have time to close my mouth and in comes another spoonful. I cannot stomach the taste of chocolate desolation but I am so hungry. Give me a  chance to swallow, you fucking wench! Another spoonful. Another. I am drowning in malted cereal and my body rejects it. I start to vomit uncontrollably and this lady looks at me with such content that I see the light slipping from my eyes. She sighs angrily at me and leaves for what I assume is paper towels to clean my mess. I am left there in my vomit. Old patients are shuffling past me to go to the loo and they stare at me with pity. To my right is a gent with a broken leg of sorts. He looks at my vomit-ridden face and tries to smile. I close my eyes and start to cry. She is not back yet. There is a remote next to my bed to call for assistance but what fucking point is it if none of my hands or body parts move? My neck is drenched in the partially digested sludge. It seeps down my left shoulder and I watch it trail over to where one of my drips are positioned. A nurse walks past me and shakes her head in anger. I thought she was angry that I had been left in my own filth but instead she yells at me for not appreciating the food. Present me wants to vomit on her but hospital me cried and cried and cried… She was not back yet. Had she forgotten about me? Retreated for a smoke break to escape my uselessness? Somebody help me. I… I can’t clean myself. Somebody…


My pain (Bringer of water)

My pain (Pin number)

My pain (Masterchef)

My pain (The pipes)

My pain (Welcome)


7 thoughts on “My pain (Maltabella)

  1. Pingback: Khajiitwitch

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