The Nurse and my Trip to a Hospital Toilet

I woke up and my bladder was telling my brain (in a broadly Scottish accent) that, “My bladder is coming apart! Mayday!”

My consciousness was awake. My body and my thoughts calculated my trajectory towards my cane. Because it was hanging on the other end of the room, to get there I would have to crawl backward and slip under the bedside-rack then prop myself to a sitting position. From there I launched myself, wearing no shoes, no brace, towards the burgundy chair which my left hand groping to find a section of the wall. I sat down and glided to the second chair to fish for my cane. Then, hobbled by my right crippled leg and my right numb arm and for a walk towards my bathroom.

I made it to the toilet.

I pressed the red button, hanging from the toilet roll holder, to call my nurse.

The angry nurse came stalking through an open door of my bathroom. (And, the nurse had completed her nursing forms from her nursing desk catty corner from my bedroom. She could have looked into my hospital bedroom!)

She insisted that I was a bad boy so she could come into chaotic version of my nightmare; lying in my wet bed soaked through to my wet pajamas and my wet skin. So, she would roughed me up and tossed my numb, helpless, post-surgery body around for one side and towards my painful left side which a staples run across my left skull from which I rather puked out my dinner!

The nurse was scared about consequences of my going to a bathroom!

The nurse could had been overjoyed at my walking. She could had written down my progress. She could had spoken to my PT.

But, this is the meaning of the word, “over bureaucratic”.

Now, every adults will know that a serious breakthrough had happened to me. I was still in shock of the rudeness of the nurse. I blanked it out of the short-term memory. Wouldn’t Eli and Shannon like to know that I made into the bathroom? With barefeet? I covered my walk across my room with shame.