First of all I’d like to admit My knowledge of Roman numerals is shocking and before every blog post I google this shit! Enjoy!
For most people the idea of 4 weeks in hospital sounds like hell; for me it was fucking bliss! I felt safe, I was fed 3 times a day and I was warm at night (ok so not just because of my through-the roof temperature). On one hand I was petrified because I really did feel like microwaved shite, convinced I was dying and baffling doctors even more by the day; and then there was the other side that left me feeling elated, free and finally able to get the fuck away from that psycho ‘R’.
It was day 3 and I showed no signs of getting better, my temperature was still ‘spiked’ (if I had a quid for every time I heard that friggin word) and I was still shitting through the eye of a needle, spewing my ring and screaming at the nurses to get me a fucking ice bucket! Apparently they don’t have an ice machine in hospitals which I still find absurd! I was sweating my pre-enhanced tits off, well it was dripping off my chest and even my thighs, I mean who the hell knew your thighs could sweat? Mine had never sweat before but now even my eyelids were sweaty and I lusted after a cube of ice like you couldn’t believe. I now knew how Renton felt in trainspotting and I needed a fucking hit (of ice not coke or meth) but instead I settled for Luke-warm tap water. My aunt was away and they’d called my ‘next of kin’ who happened to be my first husband still at the time. A blonde smiley nurse came in with a phone on wheels, it looked like it was from 1985 “your husband is on the phone'” my fucking what?! The bloody cheek of him! Still nevertheless I took the call hoping someone was going to feel sorry for me. Yet again I was wrong and instead he spoke to me like a piece of shit telling me that I’d got AIDs from being a whore. James ALWAYS called me a whore long before I’d ever ventured into this world so in hindsight, if you call someone something enough they will bloody become it. I need to explain that James was a weird germaphobe and always telling me in arguments that I was riddled with AIDS which I found most peculiar though it all made sense when going through his sock drawer that fateful day I caught him out after I found a specimen pot in a plastic sandwich bag with a laboratory form ordering tests for 1. The clap, 2. The ‘HIV’ and a load of other diseases that hadn’t been discussed at my rather lovely private all girls school (though shout out to Mrs Gafford who was a gem!). What the hell was he worrying about having all these crazy STDs when he was only sleeping with me? Oh right, hmmm yeh he wasn’t! Turns out me and miss waif-like blonde weren’t the only girls and in fact he’d not only ordered these tests from the GP but his other girlfriend had mentioned in a text I’d found on his phone that she too was taking a test; a whole different type of test though! Yup! You got it! She was possibly up the duff! Great.
Anyways I’ve digressed again but you guys needed to know that bit I felt. So I’m in hospital with a ‘spike n’ a half’ and I’m still dying though I’m not dead. Thank fuck. I’m terrified of dying as you lot already know. So day 3, no one has visited me and of course they’re not going to, I was being silly, blonde nursey was sweet but I was in ‘isolation’ as they didn’t know what type of lurgey it was I had so I had little human contact. By the way you also need to know I’m in my hospital bed being harassed to fuck by ‘R’ on the ‘work’ phone (your probably wondering why I’m even bothering but he petrified me) he’s asking me when I’m back and I kept telling him I was really sick wishing he’d believe me. That afternoon a nice nursey pops into my room, she’s small with cropped hair and mum like demeanour. ‘Kath’ (yes her real name!) asks me if I can think of anything that could have caused me to get ill? Urmmmmmm ….
I start to cry, tears streaming down my face, salty little drops of misery and regret landing in the corners of my mouth (probably the only nourishment I’d had in a while). Kath is a total Hun and she’s telling me it’s all going to be ok, and I wanted to believe her sooo badly, in fact I wanted her to adopt me right there and then. I told Kath most of it, mainly about the drugs and how miserable I was and even admitted that I was for the most of it (meaning during my drug taking) suicidal. Yes, I have a fear of dying but I had also been very suicidal wondering what the hell I was doing and wanting to never wake up again, I couldn’t believe I was even in this position to begin with it wasn’t supposed to happen to me I just really wanted my mum even at the age of 26. I had the perfect opportunity back then to tell Kath about ‘R’ as I knew what he was doing was criminal and that he was a evil bastard rapist but I was too scared still. After an hour of Kath comforting me she left my side and in came a gaggle of doctors staring down at me firing questions at me I don’t remember whilst prodding my stomach. Another IV line fitted with different drugs to try and bring down this bastard spike. They left and I drifted off until I was woken by a terrifying bald figure standing there looming over me and holding my wrist.
It was the night shift and this nursey was a bloke! A gruffly 6ft odd bloke with a bald head and the most soothing voice that sounded like he’d just finished ploughing his fields in Cornwall. Wow. I was definitely high on the all the drugs I was being pumped with but this bloke was beautiful and an overwhelming indescribable feeling of ‘he’s mine’ came over me. He held my wrist so gently and told me he found it easier to take my pulse that way than using “those bloody machines”.
Love at first sight is real and I wanted to stay awake all night just so I could speak to him when he returned. I was already technically married but I was going to marry this man……
Love Lo xx