Читать книгу The World I Fell Out Of - Melanie Reid - Страница 13

What hath night to do with sleep?

John Milton, Paradise Lost

The rehab ward was no place for sissies. I learnt that in the middle of my first night, woken from sleep as if for a hostile interrogation. Two nursing assistants arrived in my bedspace with a flourish, switching on the full-strength fluorescent examination light overhead, pulling the curtains noisily shut behind them, stripping back my blankets. It was somewhere in the small hours; there were other patients asleep a few feet away in the same room.

‘What’s happening?’

No reply. They were talking, but not to me.

I was bewildered, dazzled, disorientated. They were putting their hands under me, moving me across the bed. Maybe this was another fantasy kidnap.

‘Please, what’s happening?’

One of them broke off from their conversation.

‘You need turned.’

He reeked of cannabis. Dougie always said I had a nose like a bloodhound but this guy was in a different league. You could almost taste it. Together they worked like a Formula One pitstop team: rolled me onto my other hip, wedged a pillow behind my back to keep me there, placed another pillow under my top knee, and switched my overnight urine drainage stand, attached to my catheter, to the opposite side of the bed. It was done in seconds, a slick, well-practised manoeuvre. Wham bam, wheelnuts tight, off you go, Sebastian Vettel, back out of the pit lane.

‘OK,’ Doobie said. It wasn’t a question. They switched off the blinding light, pulled back the curtains, and moved to the next bed. Click, swoosh, gone. Not remotely cruel, but not remotely kind either. Disengaged, impersonal. I wasn’t a person; I was a task, one of dozens of four-hourly turns they had to perform through the night. It was an attitude I was to become deeply accustomed, and eventually immune to. But right at that moment, I had never felt more alone, more insulted by the stench of cannabis, or more acutely aware of what a sheltered, precious, middle-class prat I was to feel so offended. Later, when I got to know Doobie better, I became quite fond of him. But not his smell.

Way back in the beginning, hospital was a sanctuary. Like driftwood washed to the top of the beach by a high tide, salt-bleached, splintered by the storms, you just rest awhile, nestling in the sand. Something terrible has befallen you, but if you lie very, very still, you will be safe. Nothing is asked of you. Hands which you cannot feel will gently position you; quiet voices address you. In intensive-care and high-dependency wards, they turn you frequently in the night to protect your skin from pressure sores, but they do it discreetly and by torchlight in order not to wake you. When you cease to be acutely ill, and move away from those remarkable acute areas where the staff ratio is generous and the NHS functions at its very best, things change. The nurses in high-dependency tried to warn me about the difference in ethos awaiting me. ‘It’s different next door,’ they said. Next door was the adjoining corridor, the forty-bed spinal rehabilitation ward, where, having had your spine stabilised, you would be schooled to cope with your condition. Weeks later, Euphorbia, one of the senior rehab nurses, proudly shared with me the standard joke about the transition.

‘Like going from the Ritz to a Travelodge,’ she said. And laughed. Took me a while to find it funny, but I did eventually.

The ward seemed more Guantanamo than Travelodge, though, that first night after the interruption, as I lay with a thumping heart and retinas imprinted with the white-hot square of the ceiling light. It struck me, as I struggled to take in the rules and understand the rhythm of the ward, that this was what being dumped at boarding school must have felt like to a sheltered child. A doctrine of tough love with the love taken out. Newly paralysed, I was exquisitely powerless to do anything but watch and listen. Once again, I garrisoned myself deeper and deeper in that only safe place, my head. Once again, it came down to survival.

And boy, imprisoned, motionless, I really did feel my spaceship had landed me on yet another alien planet. I had to learn fast. There was something almost Darwinian about it. Sink or swim. Adapt or die. A rehab ward in a spinal unit is like an under-strength factory floor: too few staff battling to a relentless timetable of feeding, medicating, washing, toileting, dressing and hoisting dozens of helpless carcasses into wheelchairs to get them to the gym. I guess it’s a bit like a geriatric ward only there’s more shit and less dementia, and I’m not sure, from a nurses’ point of view, if that’s a wholly desirable payoff. The operation was geared to through-put. The aim was to get us wrecks into the best possible state of semi-independence as quickly as possible, aware and able to self-manage, so we could be returned to our homes. It was noisy, smelly, shitty, relentless hard work for the nursing staff and a slow, tormented awakening to reality for the carcasses, many of whom lacked even the motor function to press their call buzzer for attention. But it was functional. Something had to be done with us.

Things, I swiftly discovered, wound themselves up from 6 a.m. onward, in preparation for the 7 a.m. handover, when the nurses’ twelve-and a half-hour-night shift switched with the twelve-and-a-half-hour day shift. There is a grim unforgiving routine when you have paralysed bladder and bowels. Conveyor-belt stuff. The nurses detached our overnight urine drainage bags, great wobbling two-litre plastic bags of yellow fluid collected from indwelling catheters, and emptied them down the loo. Before handover, in the dawn light, they would leave us our little morning package of delight, anal suppositories wrapped up in an incontinence pad, on the ends of our beds. ‘Are your supps in?’ echoed the cry.

Paraplegics, whose arms and hands were not paralysed, were taught to reach behind their backs to their bottom and shove their own up. Tetraplegics like me, who could neither hold nor reach, had to wait to have the nurse do it. A few minutes after insertion, as the suppositories began to do their work, our semi-naked bodies, big, small, and everything in between, were hoisted onto commode-style shower chairs and wheeled into the bathroom one after another, to be poised over the loo until our bowels delivered. There was a critical time balance as to how long you waited. Left in bed too long, you would poo on the sheets or, worse, in the hoist; or perhaps even dump upon the floor through the hole in the shower chair seat en route to the bathroom. Too short a time, and you would sit for what seemed like hours over the loo, waiting for the splash that told you something had happened. It was the only way to tell. You had no feeling.

Eventually, a staff nurse would come and use a gloved finger to check that your bowels were empty; and then you would be showered. Often your bowels didn’t oblige and after half an hour or so, with you cold and acutely miserable on the hard plastic split seat of a shower chair, a staff nurse would come and put their fingers up your anus, stimulating the rectum until it released. Some nurses were better at it than others. They were the ones you loved because they were fast, efficient and gave you confidence that you would last the day without an accident. The ever-cheery Rosebud, one of my favourites, used to waggle her index finger and joke that she should have it insured as one of the best in the business. Without the willingness of spinal nurses to put their hands up dozens of backsides a day, closing their noses to the smell of faeces, the paralysed would die. It’s as simple as that. Perhaps it’s no surprise that death rates for spinal injuries improved after the invention of the disposable latex glove in the 1960s.

They gave as good as they got, those fast-talking, insouciant Glasgow girls. Lupin, her uniform straining over her fabulous bust, had spent the morning crouching on the floors of bathrooms, beside arse after arse, evacuating poo. Later she sounded off to some of us, the patients she trusted, about being criticised by one of the consultants.

‘He’s like complaining it was too smelly when he was doing the ward round.’

She threw her hands out, paused for effect.

‘I’m like, “No shit Sherlock!”’

‘Did you really say that?’

‘You kidding?’

For us, new trainees in the hard school of double incontinence, this was the start of an entirely different way of life. We laughed about our plight when things went particularly wrong, forged together by the dark humour, the dry-as-dust jokes, the human condition stripped to its most primitive. It was, I guess, like a PoW camp. With it went an undercurrent of real camaraderie, a shared acknowledgement of our common misery. Up and dressed one mid-afternoon, a dozen or so of us were parked in our wheelchairs in a polite semicircle, staring at the wall onto which was projected the first slide of a PowerPoint presentation. And one of our number, a distinguished man who had boarded a plane at Heathrow but when it landed was unable to stand up because he had suffered a spinal stroke, leant over from his wheelchair towards mine and muttered:

‘Did you ever imagine a situation where you would sit gazing intently at the words “Bowel Management”?’

Indeed, there were far too many things beyond the power of imagination and they were pressing in on us. We got detailed tutorials. We were as mordant as we could be, for without a highly developed sense of the ridiculous, how else could we cope with bleak forty-five-minute lectures about suppositories, peristalsis and sphincters; or indeed, in subsequent sessions, about pressure sores, catheterisation techniques and the risks of a deadly condition called autonomic dysreflexia? We were awake yet trapped in an undergraduate’s anxiety nightmare, where you dream you’ve committed to study entirely the wrong course. There had been some terrible mistake. You wanted to do English Literature; you were stuck in theoretical astrophysics. And in this university there was no dropping out, no transferring. To this day, I have lodged in my memory one particular giant image of a bedsore on a buttock which was displayed on the wall for us during those afternoon education sessions.

‘This sore is the size of a plate,’ warned the nurse in charge.

‘It had to be packed every day and the person had to spend two years in bed before they were able to sit up in a chair again. It is what can happen if you do not check your skin and take efforts to relieve pressure points.’

I looked at plates differently after that.

Most definitely beyond imagination were the backstories of my fellow patients: the extraordinary mixture of bizarre and mundane which had brought us together. We were a community bound by the common possession of crushed or severed spinal cords, but the disparate tales of how it came to happen were far, far stranger than fiction. Any woman who has given birth in an NHS hospital will know what it’s like to share a ward with the fantastic, comic mix of rough and ready, posh and precious, and every kind of female in between, whose only common bond is the ability to have a baby. Well, breaking your back is like that but magnified a millionfold. If you tried, you could not have made us up. Academics, labourers, wasters, tradesmen, accountants, failed suicides, business managers, teenagers, drunks, cyclists, stuntmen, farmers, speedway riders, criminals, jockeys, teachers, police officers, motorbikers, dog-walkers, golfers, drug addicts, teachers, pensioners and more congregate in spinal units. We were young, old, decrepit, well-groomed, inarticulate, intellectual, deranged, gay, straight and transgender, condemned to our wheelchairs by road accidents, falls from bikes or horses or walls or beds or cliffs or balconies, stumbles off kerbs, trips over slippers or coffee table or dog leads or manhole covers, crashes on the piste, dives into swimming pools, rugby tackles, violent assaults, attempted murder, war, vascular incidents or complications from tumour operations. Several were victims of slipping on ice. Men outnumbered women by almost ten to one. Every one of us had our own bitter misinterpretation of risk to reflect on. What we had in common is that life, quite simply, chose to leap out and attack us. As one nurse put it: ‘When I first came to work here I was terrified of the chance of spinal injury happening. Then I saw that it can happen to anyone, in any circumstance. It is completely random so I stopped worrying.’

This did not stop us, as individuals, in private moments, being haunted by our ‘what ifs’. What if I’d left the bike at home. Or pulled up the horse. Or not got in the car. But such thoughts were entirely pointless, jousting with the random essence of existence. Meantime, I decided, even if I couldn’t move, there was at least some fleeting entertainment to be had watching and listening to my fellow travellers. It was, I supposed, like being on a cruise ship.

The rehab ward was subdivided into rooms of four or six beds. One of these, opposite the nurses’ station, was a dedicated respiratory section for those poor sods who were on tracheotomies in order to breathe. They remained strangers to most of us, as they never rose from bed to wheelchair, and were too sick and dependent to reach the gym. People with such high-level neck injuries stayed as long as it took to stabilise them and arrange the massive twenty-four/seven care packages they would need at home. Then they were taken away at quiet times: still, distant figures upon stretchers beset by tubes and ventilators.

I remember catching a glimpse through the internal ward glass of one occupant: a morbidly obese man, not old by any means, who lay like a mountain upon what seemed an impossibly small bed, the tubes through the front of his throat, his face turned impassively towards the outside window. He did not live long enough to go home: one morning the staff came and drew all the internal curtains in the wards, shut the doors and hushed our buzzers, because his body was being removed and we were not to see. His accident had probably been caused by a fall – the most common cause of calamity. But oh what variety was contained within that tiny little word ‘fall’: it included everything from failed suicide to a trip over the coffee table in the living room after, or even before, a glass of wine, or sometimes six. All of human life was there in the lurid, eye-popping diversity of falling. There was Del, a part-time brickie and a full-time wild man, who had swallow-dived from the seventh floor on holiday in the Costas, convinced by drugs and alcohol he could fly. Despite his injuries, I think he still thought he could. He also thought he was irresistible to women and was famous for making lecherous comments to staff and female patients. Some weeks later, when I was upright in the gym on a static wooden standing frame, braced upright between foam knee braces and leather straps behind my bottom, I became aware of Del in his wheelchair at my right hip, leering.

‘You look OK standing up. For an old bird,’ he said. ‘I’d have a bit of that.’

‘In your dreams,’ I said as haughtily as I could, trying not to laugh at the pitch-black irony of a pick-up line from one deranged tetraplegic to another marginally less deranged; indeed, at the very suggestion either of us had sexual currency of any kind. How to plumb the depths of bitter-sweet. Later I rationalised that as offers went, given my condition, it was probably the best I was ever going to get.

He cackled and rolled off to pester someone else. I felt as if I had joined some hilariously macabre list of Dickensian characters. Tenement had done much the same thing as Del but on a lesser scale, a chronic alcoholic who had lost his house keys and fallen while trying to climb in the window to his third-floor flat. If his life had been chaotic beforehand, it was hopeless now. His hands jangled like a medieval palsy sufferer’s, and it was nothing to do with his broken spine. The stuff his girlfriend smuggled in for him could only assist. Despite encouragement he never showed up for gym sessions; he preferred to go outside and join the smokers, the small band of paralysed who huddled their chairs near the entrance to the spinal unit. Out there too was Steroid, a scaffolder who told the doctors he had tripped but confided to us in hand therapy, where he was learning to feed himself, that he’d run into a wall in a drug-induced rage and broken his own neck.

‘At least I think I did,’ he said. ‘I was aff ma fucking heid at the time.’

Right outside the front door, just through the underpass, lay the streets of Govan, an inner-city Glasgow ward which persistently featured in all the indices of deprived Britain. Like urban foxes scavenging, the occasional local street dweller or small-scale drug dealer smelt out the needy patients and would drift by in the evenings, offering an anaesthetic of fags, booze, dope, pills, harder stuff. Here was an eager market; and usually with cash stowed in their zips and pockets. But nothing is successfully furtive when you cannot use your hands and slow-motion drug-dealing with cripples in the dusk was worthy of the blackest of comedy scripts. The dealers – though the name makes them sound more glamorous than they were – would hand over their booty and watch as the paraplegics, whose hands worked, fumbled in the pockets of the joggers of the tetraplegics, whose hands didn’t, to get their money out for them. That was the unwritten code with a knackered spine: anyone who had a less severe injury and could do something, helped out anyone who couldn’t. If your hands didn’t work, you found a mate whose hands did, and you locked your wheelchairs together in a macabre mating while they reached over and retrieved what you needed. For the scavengers it was a rare encounter with people far lower down the pecking order than they had ever met before.

Although the authorities alerted the police regularly to drive away the dealers, these transactions were fairly unstoppable. Anyone caught using or in possession of drugs inside the unit was expelled, and some were when I was there; but who was to ban patients from smoking outside the hospital doors? Morally, these were the entitlements of the damned. Down among any dead men – the traitor before the firing squad, the poor sod in the trenches with his torso blown away, the young paraplegic whose penis would never feel again – a cigarette was an emblem of compassion. Who would ever deny the needy whatever tiny pleasure was possible? Certainly not the occupational therapists, who would on the quiet craft ingenious devices to allow tetraplegics to continue to smoke – hand straps to let them grip fag packets, a length of wire with a loop on the end to hold the cigarette, so they could reach it to their mouths. There were no pious bleats about being forbidden to facilitate patients’ smoking, just discreet pragmatism and an absence of judgementalism. The bosses looked the other way. I loved that, even if it was just one more measure of how great a catastrophe had befallen us.

In my ward there were six beds and slowly I began to find out about the people around me. Next to me was Karen, who was the same age as me. She was a fall statistic. An innocuous tumble in her house had mysteriously paralysed her: only when she was X-rayed did she find out that she had undiagnosed arthritic deterioration in her neck which, in a stroke of appalling bad luck, had pierced her spinal column. Her injury was at a roughly similar level to mine, but I was the luckier: she had less movement in her arms than me and her fingers were permanently bent shut. If she envied me, it never showed. She never knew, either, how much I envied her calmness and realism: while I was gung-ho to fight my way back to total fitness through blood, sweat and tears, her ambitions were simply to be able to hold a mug, feed herself, and apply make-up. Guess who was the wiser?

With us in the room were two teenagers, one who had dived into the shallow end of a swimming pool on holiday, the other who had her back broken in a car accident. For months, lying listening to those kids learning their new realities, hearing them sobbing behind the thin curtains, or being taught how to catheterise themselves, or sitting their national school exams with an overwhelmed-looking adjudicator, was a profound lesson in how fortunate I was to have lived a lot of life before this happened. Later I shared a room with another little girl, and felt silent anger flare when Snapdragon, a senior nurse, insisted that her teddy bear was an infection control risk. Normally the bear would have had to go but, announced Snapdragon, glowing with the warmth of her own magnanimity, she’d make an exception as long he was kept wrapped up in a sealed plastic bag. Teddy sat there on the bedside cabinet, asphyxiated, head forced sideways, nose crushed against the plastic, pleading black button eyes, until the child went home.

In the far corner of the room was a mysterious patient who never got up: she was ensconced in a vast, high, warm sand bed, the size of a car, which shifted and vibrated constantly to heal long-term pressure sores. The bed, with its noise and warmth, had a strong presence of its own. Its occupant, an older woman, did not interact with us. Apparently her spinal injury was not new, but she had been unable to look after her skin for some years, and had developed a sore so bad she had been brought back in. Plates. The warnings resonated.

As a rule, the higher the neck injury, the more one’s hands were impacted. So every morning at 11 a.m., after our previous joyous two hours on shower chairs, us high spinal cord injury patients – the young, the old, the sporty; you might call us an elite of misfortune – congregated in the manner of elderly tortoises around the hand therapy table in our wheelchairs. Most of us wore the same severely restrictive collars, making us even more tortoise-like, so we greeted each other without full eye contact, nodding and squinting at midair, and then taking our places, waiting for our pots of hand putty to arrive. It resembled an early learning centre, but we were far more placid than toddlers. Left in peace long enough we would start to snooze, our heads drooping onto our collars.

The Miami J spinal collar, a thing of claustrophobic torture, smelling of sour milk, and worn every minute of the day for three months. That’s not me modelling it, that’s one of my mates from the spinal unit. Looking only a little bit porny.

There was Karen, wry and cheerful as ever, learning to hold her mascara brush. And Nevis, a high-flyer businessman who’d broken his neck ski-mountaineering, a silent man with the most harrowing thousand-yard stare I witnessed on anyone in the unit. Hand therapy was a misnomer for him: his hands were lifeless. Instead his arms were put in slings suspended on metal stands, the kind used to hang saline drips from, and he was trying to move his shoulders enough to be able to make them swing. If he could get enough motion, his insensate fists would brush hard enough across the pages of a magazine to turn them. The Professor was an elderly scientist who had been pulled over by his dog while out walking and broken his neck; he told whimsical, erudite stories and charmed everyone.

We had some laughs, most in very bad taste. Joker was a serial offender with velvet brown eyes and winsome long eyelashes who had broken his neck falling through a roof. He was one of the brightest people in the unit, subversive in a way that challenged common perspectives. He just didn’t care about anything or anyone. He said he quite liked having a broken neck because it meant that he got looked after.

‘I’ve been in Y— [a young offender’s institution] thirty-seven times,’ he announced one day, sitting opposite me and flapping his elbows for balance as he reached up to try to rearrange an abacus.

‘Ooo,’ I said. ‘What for?’ My tongue was sticking out with concentration. I was doing my best to play Chinese chequers with rubber bands around the wooden pegs for grip.

He looked pityingly at me, across our different worlds.

‘Stealing cars.’

I found him fascinating. He told me the best makes to steal and how easy it was. He said it had been fun for a while but then it got boring and he didn’t like being on the streets, so he would steal a car deliberately to get caught, knowing it meant a warm bed and hot food. I always feared he would take his own life when he left the unit, but in fact, with proper care in place for him and a new sense of being valued, he forged a career online.

Joker had about a year’s seniority on Kindle, another of my contemporaries, a brilliant schoolboy whose parents’ car had skidded on black ice. Kindle did his Highers, the Scottish equivalent of A levels, in the unit and went on to Oxbridge. He carried a tablet in his sweatshirt, and read compulsively, even on the standing frames. Both young men broke my heart: just boys at the start of their adult lives, making the best of the cards they had been dealt, from different ends of the pack.

And so we gathered every weekday morning round the white melamine tables, and while those with no movement in their hands were put into arm slings, those of us with semi-viable hands had to start on our own personal lumps of hard, blue putty. This was our warm-up kit – we must mould and squeeze and grip and shape the putty, flatten and separate it into tiny balls and roll it into long sausages, all the while strengthening and suppling our hands. Cars droned past on the arterial city road outside, and the wider world was turning, but in our bewildering new pre-school this was the only task which must concern us. Here I was, I reflected, former mistress of my universe, member of the chattering classes, mover, shaker and regularly responsible for editing a national newspaper, here I was struggling to cope with playdough. It required astounding effort. At the end of the exercise you returned the putty to a big round ball, which you pressed into the table with the heel of your hand. Then you sat and panted for five minutes, wiped out by the effort required.

My hands were more damaged than I liked to admit. Both were very numb. The left, in the beginning, badly swollen, flopped heavy and useless on the end of my wrist. I clocked myself in the face with it several times. My right, although fairly normal-looking, with a relative range of movement, had almost no power at all. My grip was gone. But the hand therapists, positive, cheery people, kept at us. The nicest times were when they took our hands and smoothed and massaged them within their own, so warm and active and normal. Leslie the senior therapist would take my hands, grotesquely white and crusty with dead skin, and soak them in a basin of warm water for ten minutes, and then scour off vast amounts of lizard-like scales with a coarse NHS towel. The result was extraordinary – the palms and the fingers felt liberated and free to move again. Then there were more tasks to fulfil: Connect4 to complete, tiny plastic cones to be lifted onto other cones; hoops to be taken off one peg and placed upon another. One fiendish challenge was a tall wooden stick, a tree with pegs instead of branches, upon which we were to hook discs with corresponding peg-sized holes – the sort of thing a bright three-year-old would manage in seconds. Actually, a two-year-old. First we had to reach up and hang the pegs on the top branches. Then, try and lift them off. Trying to balance my torso, extend my arms above my shoulders and grip, simultaneously, took me to my physical limits. If I managed, I was left exhausted but ridiculously pleased with myself. I saw the same sense of elation on the faces of my fellow patients. This was like climbing Everest for us.

My frequent challenge was a game for children aged five plus using a pair of tweezers to lift tiny coloured balls of plastic, 1970s love beads, and place them on equally tiny pegs. With enough concentration, to my amazement, the thumb and middle finger of my right found the infinitesimal amount of squeeze needed to do this. I even managed a few with my left hand as well. I glowed with the achievement.

My distorted hands in leather pushing gloves. This is after the swelling went down. My fingers soon froze in this shape.

Frequently we had FES – functional electrical stimulation. Electrodes on our wrists, wired to a battery unit, sent pulses which made our fingers lift and straighten. And strengthen. The electric pulses replicated the nerves which had been destroyed. The effects were remarkable. Leslie fantasised about putting newly spinally injured people in all-over FES suits, to kick-start everything. She focused heavily on making my left wrist flex upwards. This, I was to learn, was critical to my future.

Oxbow the ecologist had been cycling to work when his front wheel hit a pothole and he broke his neck. He could hardly move anything; his elbows were supported in slings in hand therapy so that he could try and regain a scintilla of shoulder action and be able to work the joystick of a power wheelchair. Barnaby was an older man, a former ship’s officer, desperate only to learn to feed himself so he didn’t impose on his elderly wife. He had fallen at home. He would sit, his forearms in yet another kind of sling, waving with a spoon at a bowlful of apple segments. Occasionally he hooked one and got it as far as his mouth, and his face cracked open with satisfaction as he munched.

Stoical the businessman, who had slipped on ice crossing a supermarket car park and suffered cervical damage, had, like all of us, numb fingers. But his numbness was combined with painful hypersensitivity in his fingertips. Every single session he sat, like a man on a lifelong mission, methodically scouring away at them with gentle sandpaper, desensitising them. I envied him his calm.

Priceless was an older, educated woman, a tourist, who had fallen and damaged her neck after drinking a glass or three of wine. She could still walk and her injuries, compared to the rest of us, were about as bad as a summer cold, but she was oblivious to this. Her lack of self-awareness, common tact even, was breathtaking. Viewed through her eyes, her plight was monstrous – her holiday had been ruined and her elegant handwriting was affected. She demanded the hand therapists help her restore it; she complained loudly about the nurses on the ward who refused to help her wash and dress, the state of the food, and the fact she was in pain. She was one of the very few patients who didn’t either touch or amuse me; it took me several years to understand the truth that she embodied. Everyone’s handicap is relative. We are all entitled to our own perspective on how badly we are injured. What seemed trivial to some was life-changing to others, and vice versa. The ownership of that grief belonged entirely to her; that was her right. Its impact upon her was not for others to judge. At the time, though, I just wanted to tell her to open her eyes and look around at the rest of us. And if I’m honest, I still experience a similar stir of exasperation when I am corralled by some old dear who wants to tell me how bad her sciatica is. I have learnt to smile and nod, detach myself from judgement.

After a couple of weeks, the intensive hand therapy began to reap rewards. My left hand became less stone-like, and the thumb and fingers were starting to wiggle. The wrist grew strong enough to prevent it flopping. My right hand was definitely more powerful and I could grasp an old-fashioned phone receiver, something I couldn’t have done a fortnight ago. Dave and I managed our first telephone conversation, home to hospital, which made both our hearts sing. Eventually, in hand therapy, I even managed to open an envelope, a major victory. To do this, I had learnt how to use my teeth, my invaluable third hand from now.

Afternoon gym was also becoming less unfamiliar. I was starting to recognise faces and understand the rhythm of therapy. The gym was two large spaces linked by a glass divide, and equipped with about ten pale blue physiotherapy plinths, which raised and lowered electronically. To a layman’s eyes, the landscape was hard to interpret, more like a medieval torture chamber than anything. There were standing frames and tilt tables beribboned with heavy-duty Velcro straps to bring paralysed people upright, jutting pulleys for carrying arm and leg slings, hooks hanging from mesh cages suspended over more plinths, two sets of parallel bars, a conveyor-belted machine with robot legs and a harness suspended over it, and various arm and chest weight machines. Plus, splendidly, like a piece of modern art, half a car – a Fiat cut off in front of the windscreen, which was attached nose-in to the glass partition. That was for the future, for those of us who were able. We could learn to transfer into driver or passenger seats, practising for a life outside.

Everywhere I looked, I saw devices I could not understand but was desperate to try. My desire to get better was atavistic.

Resting on one of the plinths while my physiotherapist attended to another of her patients, I could observe fellow inhabitants who were learning to mobilise their bodies and cope with their new lives. I felt all of eleven years old, wide-eyed, evaluating my new classmates at the big school. Who would be a kindred spirit? Who would have a sense of humour? Swiftly you learnt who to seek out, who to avoid. Fetlock had also fallen off a horse; she’d had a close escape, was walking wounded and would be going home soon, but she wanted to tell me, in great detail, in the way only horsey people do, about every wisp of hay and variation of snaffle bit she had ever seen. I shrank inside myself when she walked – walked, damn her – over to me, and I could not escape, because I was not in my chair.

‘So what horses have you got? I’ve got three – my old mare and my young one – it was my young one that dumped me – and then there’s my pal Sheena’s pony, I have him too, but he pulls like mad and he’s a bugger to catch and keeps ripping his rugs and I have to soak his hay. Do you keep yours at livery?’

Like I’m going to keep any horse, ever again? Please go away, Fetlock. I don’t wish to be cruel, but don’t you realise that my dream has ended, that you’re shooting holes in my soul?

I smiled up at her, and made some anodyne reply. On a cruise ship, be tolerant. Keep your own counsel.

Wee Jimmy had been shot in the spine, for all sorts of alleged reasons. You never asked too many questions. Some said it was revenge for a murder by his uncle Tam-the-Hatchet. In that sense the unit was akin to a church, a place of sanctuary where you accepted people for their needs rather than their deeds. Jimmy was gangly, mild-mannered and wary. He had the air of someone faintly bewildered as to why the staff were being so nice to him and he tried hard in rehab. He gave everyone on the ward a slice of his birthday cake and when he left hospital he made the front page of the tabloid press. As well as their victims, every now and again you got criminals in the unit with broken spines. Big Willie, one of the physiotherapists, a benign sixteen-stone barn door of ex-rugby player, remarked that over the years he’d had several as patients but only realised it when he read about the court cases in the paper afterwards. One man was later convicted of organising a murder.

‘Honestly, you couldn’t have met a nicer guy,’ said Willie, shaking his head.

Mostly we were innocent, life’s fallen jesters. Cycling and sports injuries were common. Cog was a mountain biker from down south who’d gone over the handlebars on a boys’ biking weekend in Scotland. He was semi-dazed and nauseated by tramadol. I remembered its ghastly nausea-inducing and head-fugging qualities. Taking tramadol, you were in the world but not of it. Pretty soon Cog transferred back down south, still looking grey and confused.

Tourette was a middle-aged man who had had a stroke that damaged his speech, long before a car accident broke his back: he was in a wheelchair and came to the gym but could only shout ‘Fuck Off!’ or ‘Pish!’ Again, his ability to swear endured, although his brain had closed down more sophisticated speech circuitry. Tourette looked like Waldorf from the Muppets, his mouth set in a determined upside-down U. Despite appearances, he was very cheerful and seemed to enjoy amusing the rest of us by cursing inappropriately. Spatula, the chef who’d broken his back in a drug-addled suicide attempt off a cliff, befriended him, and the two of them sat outside and smoked, mostly in silence but for the cursing. Spatula could stand, and mobilise a little, and could have improved, but he stopped coming to the gym and the rules were strict. If you didn’t buy into rehab, you had to leave.

And then there was Grit, a former soldier, five-foot-two tall and as hard-boiled as a twenty-minute egg. I loved Grit. He possessed very little in the world but an outsize sense of decency; his flat in a Glasgow high-rise had been broken into and when he challenged the suspected culprits, they stabbed him. One knife wound pierced his spinal column and he was paralysed down one side. Grit had been treated with little sympathy by the police and had languished without expert care in another city hospital – just one more knife victim with the wrong post code – until a doctor had recognised the seriousness of his injury and got him transferred across the city to spinal. He couldn’t believe how well he was treated in this unit by comparison.

‘Night and fucking day, Mel,’ he told me. ‘They’re just fucking angels here, the nurses. The doctors listen to you. They just didn’t care in the last place. Not fucking interested.’

Grit and I were mates from the days of high dependency when we’d had beds in facing bays; I told him he’d be walking soon and so he was, within a month, so he took to calling me Crystal Balls. He had a lot of mates, hardmen like himself, who crowded round his bedside and told him how his football team was doing and discussed the people who’d stabbed him. They knew fine who’d done it.

‘Fucking terrible, sure it is. You should see what the dirty wee bastards are getting away with now.’

‘We’ll fucking get them for you, Grit, we will.’

Sometimes the crescendo of cursing got so bad that my husband, a man not unknown to swear himself, would turn his head and lift an eyebrow. Grit would clock it, and his natural courtesy would kick in.

‘Listen Dave, big Mel, ah’m sorry, ah cannae stop fucking swearing. Lads, tone it down. Stop fucking swearing so much. Youse are upsetting people.’

Weeks later, in the gym, when Grit was getting around, first on crutches, then a stick, he busied himself bringing cups of water from the cooler to those of us stuck on machines. One day I was strapped upright, my head at least twelve feet in the air, on a tilting table with a mechanism which moved your feet backwards and forwards – towering like some ghastly human sacrifice over everyone else in the gym. Grit, who couldn’t reach high enough to put the plastic cup of water in my hand, put down his stick and starting climbing up the frame to give me the water. Only one side of his body worked, and he was utterly precarious, but he made it up and down safely and glowed with paternalistic pride as he watched me.

‘Fucking brill, big Mel. Youse are doing great, Crystal Balls.’ In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man was king.

There were Buddhists, and poets from the Scottish islands, there were heroes and villains. There were several patients with old injuries, returned for treatment, whose voices we only really heard if the drugs trolley was a few minutes late, which it often was, and they would ring their buzzers crying for their methadone. Had their injuries made them opiate addicts? You could not ask, and no one would ever tell. Nor would judgement ever be passed. We mostly lived out our private lives in public, but we gathered into ourselves what scraps of dignity remained behind those grotty thin curtains, and kept some secrets. There was a policeman who had had his back broken by a getaway car; he often rehabbed on the plinth next to a stone-mason whose bungee jump had gone wrong and whose mum kept complaining about the quality of the food. Mrs Bennet, a school dinner lady, didn’t come to the gym often – hurt in a fall, she seemed to accept her fate with remarkable good grace, though I suspect it was partly to do with the amount of tramadol she took. She was not at all unkind, but very lazy, and liked to know everyone’s business. Had there been a God, she would have had several unmarried daughters, and an acerbic husband. And who could forget Passion, the Brazilian stallion, whose spinal operation had not been successful? He fretted very publicly about whether he would still be able to have sex and boasted that his body would be perfect again soon. Very swiftly he earned a reputation for commandeering the communal bathroom when his wife came to visit, presumably so he could check out whether things were really as bad as he feared. He was ignorant, and sexist, and thought nothing of making insulting remarks to female patients, me included, but I watched him on the parallel bars one day, straining to make his steps fluid, trying to convince himself he was winning, the beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip, and felt sorry for him. We were all in our own ways trying to kid ourselves.

So I began my rehabilitation, trying to ride that ghastly non-compliant new horse which was my body; a terrible physical challenge that bucked and threw me contemptuously, time and time and time again. They had given me a wheelchair with the brand name Quickie and in it I learnt a new definition of slowness. My nails grew faster than my progress down the corridor. Somehow I had to learn to exist again; my arms had to learn to support and move me; my hands, the fingers now tightening, clawing into stumps like decrepit Trafalgar Square pigeons, had to learn how to hold a kettle or a toothbrush and bear the pain of the push rims of the wheels on my palms. I was given thick leather mitts, which fastened with Velcro and were specially designed for easy use by tetraplegics, to protect the skin (see photo here). One day, trying to come back from the gym along the carpeted stretch of corridor – installed, sadistically but sensibly, to prepare us for real life – my arms gave up and the pile of the carpet steered me into the wall. I sat quietly weeping in frustration until a nurse took pity on me and pushed me off the carpet.

In the gym my routine was simple: arm exercises first – twenty minutes on the handbike, then biceps curls and triceps lifts on the weights machines. Then, hoisted onto the specialist plinths, I began the process of coping with the appendage formerly known as my body. Propped in a seated position, my feet on the floor, foam wedges behind me to catch me if I went backwards, I started to learn how to balance sitting upright. How peculiar it felt. Because I could not feel my backside in contact with the plinth; I had the sensation I was a head and shoulders poised on wobbly air. I swayed like a blancmange, only staying upright because I could grip the edge of the plinth with my crocked fingers and lean back on my arms.

Next, from the same seated position, as my left wrist strengthened and began to hurt less, I was told to place my hands beside me on the firm surface and try and lift myself. Impossible. But critical to the future. When your body is paralysed and you try to lift your own body weight solely with your unaccustomed arms, you cannot believe how hard it is. The movement starts in your brain with a huge heave and ends, if you’re lucky, in a flicker you barely perceive. The physios put a bench in front of my knees so that if I toppled forward, I would not go onto the floor. And there I sat, for perhaps forty minutes at a time, hands aching on the blue plastic, wobbling, tilting forward a little, bracing through my shoulders and arms, trying to heave. Did anything happen that time? I could only tell by peering down, trying to imagine a sensation of lightening. It was exhausting. And I couldn’t kid myself that I saw anything.

The gym had a radio, with notoriously bad reception, tuned by whichever member of staff got to it first in the morning. If Big Willie switched it on, we had Radio 2, because he was addicted to trivia and knew the answers on Pop Master. Margaret, the lovable, warm-hearted physio assistant, upon whose shoulder I often wept, preferred Smooth. And Susan, my own physio, a feisty rock-chick with a tongue stud and attitude, the woman who became the focus of my world, always went for Rock Radio. Somehow, as the weeks stretched onwards into summer, and the hours spent in the gym fused into one another, the only tune I can remember, throbbing fuzzily, flatly, over and over and over again, was ‘Heartbeat’ by Enrique Iglesias and Nicole Scherzinger. The more tinny and unmoving, the better, as far as I was concerned. Only in the gym could I bear music, where there was company and distraction. On my own radio, in the intimate surroundings of my own bed with an earpiece in, I never tuned to music stations. Only talk could I cope with. Current affairs. Hanging onto the familiar voices of the Radio 4 Today presenters, friends from my lost past, discussing current affairs that used to matter. When I was surprised by snatches of music or songs, especially those that meant something to me, the violence of my grief was overwhelming. Music released emotion. In order to stay strong, I had to shut it out.

About six weeks after my accident, the staff took us out of the unit in a minibus to the local shopping mall to play ten-pin bowling. It was my first time out in the world in a wheelchair and I found it brutal – physically alarming (would my head stay on going round corners?) and emotionally souring. Glowering from the minibus windows at the drivers zooming past in their busy, able-bodied lives, I cursed the bad luck that had put me here, in crippledom, in what felt like the Sunshine Variety bus, rather than where they were.

At the giant shopping complex, I struggled with everything – the fresh air, the searing daylight, the tiny gradient up to the entrance, the sight of people, people, people, effortlessly doing all the things I used to do, getting out of cars, rushing into shops, window shopping. The sense of dislocation and loss was profound and I felt so small that I wished I could disappear, swallowed up in my own tears of self-pity. Weeping defiantly, I inched my way along the fronts of shops full of clothes designed to look good when you’re standing up, cursing them as well. As I was by far the weakest wheelchair pusher there – and it’s a tough school, spinal physio; you have to push yourself – I was trailing a long way behind the others by the time I got to the bowling alley at the end of the mall. Black humour is possibly the very last lifebuoy left in the sea at times like that; it certainly came to my rescue that afternoon.

The spinal outing had coincided with that of a group of special needs adults, who were clustered around the arcade games at the entrance to the bowling alley. Severe Down’s syndrome, people with growth deficit, damaged bodies and all degrees of learning difficulty, enthralled by the flashing lights and the buttons to press. Then they saw me coming. I guess I was some sight: a kind of Ninja Turtle moving very, very slowly on wheels, encased in black and white plastic from chin to groin, flailing elbows, funny gloves, red eyes, a yellow bag of urine and its valve trailing mysteriously from under my trouser leg. They all turned, entranced by the vision. At the entrance, just where the arcade machines were, the shiny floor of the mall turned to carpet and upon it I stuck, becalmed, and my legs went into spasm.

Oooooh, said the army of little people, and they forsook the flashing lights and motorbike simulators to gather around me. They inspected me at close range with grave, uninhibited curiosity, fascinated by the alien on wheels flailing weakly in front of them. I smiled and nodded at them, foolishly trying to protect my dignity. They didn’t care. They weren’t being judgemental. I realised that they had instinctively identified someone who was as low down the pecking order as they were. I was one of them, but I looked a bit funnier. I might even be lower down the order than them. Indeed, most of these solemn-faced souls were taller than me, and much more mobile. I felt as if I had been cast in one of Alan Bleasdale’s black comedy dramas. They were still staring, gently but persistently, when a nurse came to my rescue and pushed me onto the carpet towards the bowling alley, and balls I could neither lift nor bowl.

During those early days in rehabilitation, I got to put a face to Snafu, whose angry, distressed voice had echoed round my nights in the high dependency ward. Everyone adored Snafu – male and female patients, nurses, physiotherapists, his mum, his sisters, his Army mates, his five thousand ex-girlfriends: he was a tough, outrageous, larger-than-life character, as wild as a semi-domesticated polecat, as sharp as any stand-up comedian, as mature as he was vulnerable. Then nineteen, he had been shot in Helmand, Afghanistan, when a sniper’s bullet sneaked into the sleeve hole of his body armour, hit his shoulder blade and ricocheted through his spine at the top of his chest. He reckoned the Afghan was a rubbish shot.

‘If he was any good I’d be dead, wouldn’t I?’

As he lay on the ground, fully conscious, he remembers bantering with his fellow soldiers. He thought he was dying, but decided he might as well go with a smile on his face. His mates told him what soldiers always tell their dying comrades – that he’d be all right; that he’d be in the pub in no time. He was helicoptered to Camp Bastion, thence to Birmingham, and soon to the spinal injuries unit in Glasgow, to be nearer his family. The six-foot-four, fifteen-stone soldier morphed into a skinny, laconic, blue-eyed tetraplegic playboy, soon well enough to dance around the gym on the back wheels of his wheelchair like a trick cyclist, chatting up all the girls, amusing everyone with his antics. Either that, or he indulged in a soldier’s favourite game of mooching, fag in hand, at the door, trading profane insults with anyone brave enough to take him on.

During the Pope’s visit to Glasgow in 2010, Snafu appeared at one end of the ward, as if in a vision, a mitre fashioned from a pillowcase stuffed with cardboard upon his head, his body draped in a white blanket, a giant crucifix round his neck. He carried an aluminium brush handle as a staff and glided regally up the ward in his chair handing out fragments of sliced white bread to the occupant of every bed. In Glasgow, a city riven by religious divide, the comedy was especially edgy, of course, because he was a Protestant; a Rangers football team supporter.

‘Bless you my child,’ he said at every bedside.

And to the women and the female nurses, his eyes dancing sardonically: ‘Kiss my ring.’

Several years have passed, but I can still remember the sustained gale of laughter following him up the corridor that day. People laughed and then kept on laughing and then laughed some more. You simply don’t hear that in hospital. He provoked a similar outbreak of mirth in the gym when, bored and restless as he often was, he wheeled around asking all the women present how much they would charge to lap-dance for him.

The physios gathered their professional dignity and tried not to join in.

‘Get lost, Snafu.’

‘Go away! Aren’t you supposed to be on the triceps press?’

He was utterly persistent. ‘No, you have to tell me. How much?’

Eventually, casting their eyes around to make sure no NHS suits with clipboards were lurking, the physios played his game.

‘Four million,’ said one.

‘At least. Because my career would be finished if I was found out.’

‘Six million.’

‘I wouldn’t do it.’ A humourless junior physiotherapist on rotation in spinal.

His eyes lighted wickedly on me, purple-faced, toppled helplessly over my own knees. ‘Hey Mel, what would you charge?’

I was flattered to be asked. He tolerated me, just about, as a mate, although his banter was brutal – I was as old as his granny, plus he’d decided I was officer class. I’d been a horse rider, after all, and he’d found out my house had an orchard – so in the gym he loudly dubbed me a caviar-eating snob. In private, when he found me in tears, he was kindness itself. He was a year younger than my own son.

‘Half a million,’ I said. ‘Because my freak value doesn’t outweigh the fact I’m too old.’

‘Nah,’ he agreed.

Snafu got particularly bored at weekends, when there was no gym. One Sunday evening, the place packed with visitors, his terrible screams echoed down the ward: ‘Aaaaargh!! Nurse!!!! Come quick!!!! I can’t feel my legs!!!’ For amusement, he regularly soaked the auxiliaries when they helped him shower, or when the fire alarm went off, as it did often, he sped up the ward screaming, ‘Fire! Everyone out! This one’s for real.’ It was Snafu who yelled triumphantly across the gym, ‘Susaaaaan! Ah’ve pished masel’!’ when his catheter tube became disconnected from his leg bag; who invented wheelbarrow races for the paralysed; who decided to practise commando crawl across the gym, dragging his legs behind him, and of course wriggled straight out of his tracksuit bottoms, exposing himself to the world, and leaving the physiotherapists initially too helpless with laughter to cover him up; and it was Snafu who, despite his impaired hands, beat everyone in the target-shooting competition one Wednesday afternoon, part of our weekly games session. As a flourish, to demonstrate he was in the company of amateurs, he also shot the clock on the gym wall: the holes remain in the glass to this day. He had wanted to be a soldier since he was four and before he was paralysed he’d been in line for specialist sniper training and promotion. A man-child: incorrigible, charismatic, vulgar, cynical, careless, self-destructive, heroic, vulnerable, shrewd. Of all the people I encountered in the tiny, little-understood world of spinal injury, he was the one that made me the most sad.

Approaching bedtime on the rehab ward was the worst. The conveyor-belt sequence kicked in again, in reverse, and we sat by our beds, queueing for the team of two nurses to come and hoist us out of our chairs onto the sheets and attach our overnight urine bags. Then we waited for the final drugs trolley. Long-term incarceration in hospital teaches you tolerance, patience and the knowledge that we are all very, very human. Even now, years later, when I close my eyes I can hear the banter of Rosebud in the distance and the squeak and rattle of the night-time trolley she is pushing. And around me I can sense some of my fellow patients starting to flutter and jangle. Respectable middle-aged women, with husbands and flowerbeds and Vauxhall Astras, but now hungry for whatever opiate or benzodiazepine they needed to soothe the mental anguish of their state, their personal paradise lost. They hungered, bodies paralysed but writhing inside for medication, just as mine had writhed in the high-dependency ward. When was the trolley coming? One woman would press her buzzer anxiously and then others would follow. The drone of multiple alarms would sound down the long ward.

‘What kept you?’ Mrs Bennett would cry.

Rosebud, ever insouciant, was having none of it.

‘What do you think this is? BUPA?’ she cried. ‘I tell you, you’re lucky it isn’t. I’ve worked in private hospitals and they bill you for every single pill you take. Even a paracetamol. Youse are lucky youse are here and not there.’

Apart from when the staff came to turn us onto the other hip on a four-hourly rota, we were then undisturbed until the morning. That was the theory. Nights change when you are in hospital. In fact, as I was to learn, nights change forever when you are paralysed. Any joy went. Your favourite sleeping positions ceased to exist, partly because you could not feel them and partly because you could not achieve them on your own. You adopted the protocol position you were put into – on one hip or the other, pillow wedged into your back, another under the upper knee, more pillows stuffed into the bottom of the bed blocking your feet from going into a flexor spasm downwards. Thus comfort was outsourced: someone else arranged your limbs and your torso in a way which was safe for your skin and for your tubes to survive unblocked. Your frozen hands were put into customised splints, the fingers strapped flat against the formed plastic so they could not contract, and all autonomy was removed. You could no longer scratch your nose, let alone pick it. The private geometry of your night, your ability to cuddle into shapes practised from childhood, was gone for ever: a very personal autonomy to lose. Meanwhile, the hour hands stuck, as if glued, to the face of the clock – T.S. Eliot’s ‘Only through time time is conquered.’ Peace was as lost as paradise. The nurses’ station on night shift was notoriously noisy; there were a handful of the staff who seemed unable, or disinclined, to lower their voices as they sat chatting. When buzzers rang, they would push back their chairs, the metal legs screeching on the floor. Weirdly, my paralysed bladder used to spasm at that noise: a peculiar sensation – somewhere deep inside an insensate body, in a dormant vital organ which contained a foreign body, a catheter, there was a horrid jump of indignation at the discordant pitch. Imagine. I could hear with my bladder! Was it transmitted via my ears, down some remaining nerve pathways, or was it a vibration in the air that affected my bladder alone, its catheter acting as a misplaced aerial?

In between interruptions, we learnt to endure the passive tyranny of those long hours, where no limbs stirred, no sheets rustled. These were not normal wards. You have no idea how eerily morgue-like paralysed patients are in bed when they cannot move. Nurses are notoriously superstitious; there are rich stories of ghostly scares on night-time wards with darkened corridors. Delphinium, one of the regular night shift, told me of the fright she had when a patient, paralysed from the neck down and normally as still as a corpse, sat bolt upright as she passed, the result of a sudden, unexpected spasm. Muscle spasms could happen, but rarely as extreme as that.

‘I was like, waaaaaaah. Nearly crapped myself,’ she said. ‘He didn’t even wake up.’

Night time. Even if our bodies were by necessity quiet, our minds were their own torture chambers, forever churning the random nature of the accidents, the screaming bad luck which had damned us to stillness. Why us? Why me? And often, if we did dream, our dreams tormented us by putting us back on our feet again. Dreams so vivid that when we woke, it was especially desolate to rediscover reality. One night I dreamt that Vitamin D tablets were a miracle cure for spinal injury, and because I already took them as supplements I was able to walk again. There I was up on my feet, walking unsteadily round the ward helping my fellow patients reach things from their bedside tables, and waiting for the doctors to arrive so I could tell them the good news. I woke up, convinced it wasn’t a dream, fighting a sickening lurch of hope and then disappointment before cold logic kicked in. I remember one night I even said to myself in my subconscious, now don’t be fooled, this is a dream, you can’t really walk again, and then I dreamt that to test it, I had woken up, and it was true – I could actually walk again. Double-dip dreaming. A plot within a plot. But of course everything remained within the parameters of the dream. Waking that morning for real was particularly cruel.

Always in the night there were the needy patients, the ones who became queasy or overcome with pain, or indeed were just desperate for human contact to break their desolation. We had call buzzers on wires; paraplegics had theirs on the bedside table, because they could reach. Tetraplegics with some arm function had them draped across their bedclothes, as in my case. Those who could move only their heads and shoulders had them by their cheek, so they could turn their head and press them. I hated using mine, but many people didn’t have the same hang-up. There were also the confused souls who couldn’t locate their buzzers, and they would just cry out, ‘Nurse … nurse …’ Of course the nurses couldn’t hear, but the rest of us in the room would be woken, and someone in a nearby bed would press their buzzer instead.

Doobie had a habit of rushing in, crying theatrically: ‘Who’s buzzing NOW?’ and striding crossly towards the patient with the flashing call button above their beds.

‘It’s Elsie,’ the buzzer-ringer would stammer, defensively. ‘She can’t press her buzzer.’

And we lay awake and listened to poor wee Elsie being administered to, because we had no choice. One night, when I was on a further course of antibiotics for a lung infection, I woke with an overwhelming need to vomit. I pressed my buzzer and heard for the first time the distinctive slap, slap of a footfall I would come to dread.

‘What is it?’ she said. Not kindly.

‘I’m sorry but I feel really sick,’ I gasped. I was panicking inside. This had never happened before. I didn’t even know if I could be sick.

She said nothing, but turned on her heel and disappeared. Soon she returned with a papier-mâché NHS sick bowl, the grey bowler hat of despair. Her body language was contemptuous. She thrust, almost threw, it at me, and walked away, leaving me to be sick alone. She didn’t say a word.

It was my first introduction to Nettles.