Day 12: A time when the nurses would join in our shenanigans
At Charlies, for the most part, the nurses would join in our shenanigans. They were either actively participating in them by joining in the water fights or providing the necessary syringes for the shenanigans to commence. On the surface, it might seem irresponsible — but the nursing staff understood two truths. If we were up to no good — we were on the mend. If we were still in our beds, we weren’t well. I think some of them overlooked the shenanigans because they understood what we went through — and that some people with CF spent the majority of their life in the hospital ward. During the second week of a hospital stay, I would often go to work dispensing my midday antibiotics in the staff room, then return to the hospital after work. This display of responsibility was usually paid back by some sort of prank when I returned to the hospital. In later years with cross-infection guidelines firmly in place, the respiratory ward moved to G Block. In G Block, single rooms and shut doors are the norm. A hospital admission became a dreary thing to be endured. The Last Walk I wrote The Last Walk as a nod to the incredible medical staff — who over the years turned a blind eye to shenanigans (or actively participated). Staff who have brought home-cooked meals, or sat with me in the middle of the night simply because they could. It’s also for others with CF, who lived through those wild hospital admissions in the early 90s — who will know that I left out far more than I included because sometimes life is stranger than fiction. 31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis Bonus Fact I once woke up on the balcony pictured above. Tom, found it highly amusing to come into my room while I was sleeping, and wheel my bed — while I still slumbered — up the corridor, past the nurse’s station, and parked me out there in the open. I’m reasonably confident; he didn’t act alone. But he was the only one I caught, and by caught, I mean he hung about to laugh at me.
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Day 11: The road to self-destruction was well signposted I still wanted that education, I wanted to work in a library, I wanted to travel, and I wanted a family. And it all seemed so elusive. More significantly, I was starting to believe this constant narrative that was thrown at me. Who was I to dream of, having a job, travelling, or having a family? Sooner or later, my CF would progress, and instead of watching my friends die, I would be the one slowly drowning as my lungs filled with mucus. So, I pushed the boundaries with destructive behaviour. I experimented with drugs, alcohol, and even cigarettes. I went out and danced all night. I didn’t look after myself. I stopped doing my treatments. The drop in my health directly reflected how I treated my body. As a consequence, I started to have hospital admission more frequently. But I told myself that my decline was as it should be. Because getting sick was my job description. I had Cystic Fibrosis. I was a Cystic Fibrosis sufferer. Still, a little part of me wanted more. A tiny voice told me if I could change the narrative, the life I wanted could be mine.
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Written bySandi Parsons - Cystic Fibrosis Warrior. |