Guilt
Hello.
Sunday afternoon and I’m sitting here just having eaten toast for lunch. Never fear, I will be having something much more substantial at my parent’s this evening. But I will have to be home early, and early to bed because tomorrow I start doing proper shifts on the ward at the hospital, and the early shift begins at 7 in the morning. (It finishes at 3, which is nice because I’ll have part of the afternoon to do stuff - or to sit and veg, perhaps.) Some might be able to leap out of bed at 6.30 and get to work, ready to start, at 7, but I can’t do that. In order to function I have to get up at about 5 so I can potter about and get myself going. It shouldn’t be difficult; I’ve been waking up at 5 for weeks now anyway. When Drew’s back, it won’t disturb him because he’ll have his earplugs in and sleeps like a log, anyway, and Charley’ll just look at me briefly and settle down again. She prefers to get up when Drew does (and even then she needs coaxing out of her cage sometimes.)
Last Thursday was the final day of “classroom” training. It all seemed to end so abruptly. Someone asked if we’d be getting together again for follow-up sessions, but we were told we won’t. So that’s it, we were all sent off ready to start our new roles the next morning with the vague hope of bumping into each other around the various cafés around the hospital or in the corridors. Our main teacher told us we were one of the best groups she’d taught because we were lively and interacted with the various speakers who had been to see us whereas previous classes have barely said anything or asked any questions.
Friday dawned, dull and muggy. I was not looking forward to it. The prospect of going onto the ward and dealing with real patients was, quite frankly, terrifying, let alone the stress of meeting my new colleagues. I’ve been so used to being at Waterstone’s for so long that this feeling was almost entirely alien to me; “almost” because the last time I had experienced anything similar was 33 years ago when I started secondary school in the autumn of 1976 and on that occasion I was so overwhelmed that it’s left a little scar on my heart.
First things first. All the people I’ve met and who I’ll be working with seem very nice, very wry in the most part. I’ve been assigned a buddy, D, for this week coming, and then another for the second week, but on Friday I spent the day with the first. She was brilliant, totally at ease in talking me through stuff and patient when I needed clarification about certain things. My only awkward moment was when she had to go on a break and I was left in the charge of the ward nurse who seemed uncertain of what to do with me. Later on in the day I went to break with D to avoid any similar occurrence.
The general opinion amongst my new colleagues was that I’d done very well for the first day, which was heartening. I wasn’t sure how much I was supposed to get stuck in, but because they were short staffed I just did as I was asked and D seemed impressed. I was surprised how much I remembered from the intense training of the previous two weeks, especially when it came to bed bathing and changing sheets with the patient still in the bed. It’s a pity no one has invented a catheter system for poo, though… that’s all I’m going to say on that matter.
So I had a good day; it seemed to go very quickly and everyone bid me a cheery goodbye. You’d think I’d come home with full of a mixture of pride and satisfaction in what I’d achieved on my first full day. But I didn’t feel like that. S & J next door invited me in for a cup of coffee and I told them that I’d got on well, that everyone was nice and so on and so on, but all the time inside my thoughts and emotions were churning, working overtime. When I finally got into the house (and had dealt with the fact that the massive storm that morning had knocked out all the electricity and has left us without either the cable TV or telephone (and the actual television seems to be dead to the world) I sat down and had a good cry. I felt completely exhausted and in shock, almost. All I could think of was the faces of the patients, most mutely excepting of what was happening to them, some just not with it at all and one very angry one. I dreamed about them that night, too.
On Saturday afternoon my great friend TW came round and I talked to him about how I was feeling, although at the time I wasn’t able to define what was wrong. He talks a lot of sense and calmed me down. He works at the hospital, not far from where I’m based, so I know when he says “If you need to talk, come and find me,” he really means it.
And finally I’ve pin-pointed what it is that underlies my dreadful feeling about it all. It’s GUILT. I feel guilty for inflicting on those people the terrible indignities of having to be naked in front of a stranger; of being rolled about on a bed; on having to have their knickers pulled down by someone else; even something as simple as waking them up to take the required observations every four hours. It’s a horrible, horrible feeling and at the moment I can’t shake it off. I know that in reality I was helping them do things that they can’t do themselves and that to NOT do it would be terribly cruel, but all the same it’s just left me dreading going back to the hospital tomorrow morning.
I WILL go back, of course. My rational side tells me that I’ll get used to it, that I am actually in a state of shock and keeps reminding me of all the positives from the day and that the future holds many opportunities for me to take.
It doesn’t help that I came home to an empty house. S&J next door are lovely and very good friends, but I couldn’t have the sort of conversation with them that I needed to have with Drew. Even an opportunity to play with Charley would have cheered me up. Drew phoned in the evening and I opened my heart to him, which made me feel a bit better and I could hear Charley sniffling about, which made me smile. His Mom is still in hospital, where everything seems to have ground to a halt for the weekend, and he is still going to visit her every time it’s allowed (a couple of two hour periods, one in the afternoon and one in the evening.) I tentatively brought up the possibility of his coming back here for just a couple of nights if his Mom’s stay in hospital is guaranteed for a week and he, to my pleasure, had been thinking along the same lines. On Saturday night, while I was at a birthday party in town, he rang my mobile to say that he and Charley would be driving back home on Wednesday, staying for the day on Thursday (which is my day off) and going back to Birmingham on Friday. It’s something for me to focus on if I do struggle for the next few days. I can’t wait to see them both.
So, a mixed report. Apologies for a miserable read, but writing about it is therapeutic.
I’d better get off my arse and investigate whether the TV just needs a new fuse. Then I must nip round to the shop and get myself some stuff for lunch next week. No rest for the wicked….
Bye for now.
Sunday afternoon and I’m sitting here just having eaten toast for lunch. Never fear, I will be having something much more substantial at my parent’s this evening. But I will have to be home early, and early to bed because tomorrow I start doing proper shifts on the ward at the hospital, and the early shift begins at 7 in the morning. (It finishes at 3, which is nice because I’ll have part of the afternoon to do stuff - or to sit and veg, perhaps.) Some might be able to leap out of bed at 6.30 and get to work, ready to start, at 7, but I can’t do that. In order to function I have to get up at about 5 so I can potter about and get myself going. It shouldn’t be difficult; I’ve been waking up at 5 for weeks now anyway. When Drew’s back, it won’t disturb him because he’ll have his earplugs in and sleeps like a log, anyway, and Charley’ll just look at me briefly and settle down again. She prefers to get up when Drew does (and even then she needs coaxing out of her cage sometimes.)
Last Thursday was the final day of “classroom” training. It all seemed to end so abruptly. Someone asked if we’d be getting together again for follow-up sessions, but we were told we won’t. So that’s it, we were all sent off ready to start our new roles the next morning with the vague hope of bumping into each other around the various cafés around the hospital or in the corridors. Our main teacher told us we were one of the best groups she’d taught because we were lively and interacted with the various speakers who had been to see us whereas previous classes have barely said anything or asked any questions.
Friday dawned, dull and muggy. I was not looking forward to it. The prospect of going onto the ward and dealing with real patients was, quite frankly, terrifying, let alone the stress of meeting my new colleagues. I’ve been so used to being at Waterstone’s for so long that this feeling was almost entirely alien to me; “almost” because the last time I had experienced anything similar was 33 years ago when I started secondary school in the autumn of 1976 and on that occasion I was so overwhelmed that it’s left a little scar on my heart.
First things first. All the people I’ve met and who I’ll be working with seem very nice, very wry in the most part. I’ve been assigned a buddy, D, for this week coming, and then another for the second week, but on Friday I spent the day with the first. She was brilliant, totally at ease in talking me through stuff and patient when I needed clarification about certain things. My only awkward moment was when she had to go on a break and I was left in the charge of the ward nurse who seemed uncertain of what to do with me. Later on in the day I went to break with D to avoid any similar occurrence.
The general opinion amongst my new colleagues was that I’d done very well for the first day, which was heartening. I wasn’t sure how much I was supposed to get stuck in, but because they were short staffed I just did as I was asked and D seemed impressed. I was surprised how much I remembered from the intense training of the previous two weeks, especially when it came to bed bathing and changing sheets with the patient still in the bed. It’s a pity no one has invented a catheter system for poo, though… that’s all I’m going to say on that matter.
So I had a good day; it seemed to go very quickly and everyone bid me a cheery goodbye. You’d think I’d come home with full of a mixture of pride and satisfaction in what I’d achieved on my first full day. But I didn’t feel like that. S & J next door invited me in for a cup of coffee and I told them that I’d got on well, that everyone was nice and so on and so on, but all the time inside my thoughts and emotions were churning, working overtime. When I finally got into the house (and had dealt with the fact that the massive storm that morning had knocked out all the electricity and has left us without either the cable TV or telephone (and the actual television seems to be dead to the world) I sat down and had a good cry. I felt completely exhausted and in shock, almost. All I could think of was the faces of the patients, most mutely excepting of what was happening to them, some just not with it at all and one very angry one. I dreamed about them that night, too.
On Saturday afternoon my great friend TW came round and I talked to him about how I was feeling, although at the time I wasn’t able to define what was wrong. He talks a lot of sense and calmed me down. He works at the hospital, not far from where I’m based, so I know when he says “If you need to talk, come and find me,” he really means it.
And finally I’ve pin-pointed what it is that underlies my dreadful feeling about it all. It’s GUILT. I feel guilty for inflicting on those people the terrible indignities of having to be naked in front of a stranger; of being rolled about on a bed; on having to have their knickers pulled down by someone else; even something as simple as waking them up to take the required observations every four hours. It’s a horrible, horrible feeling and at the moment I can’t shake it off. I know that in reality I was helping them do things that they can’t do themselves and that to NOT do it would be terribly cruel, but all the same it’s just left me dreading going back to the hospital tomorrow morning.
I WILL go back, of course. My rational side tells me that I’ll get used to it, that I am actually in a state of shock and keeps reminding me of all the positives from the day and that the future holds many opportunities for me to take.
It doesn’t help that I came home to an empty house. S&J next door are lovely and very good friends, but I couldn’t have the sort of conversation with them that I needed to have with Drew. Even an opportunity to play with Charley would have cheered me up. Drew phoned in the evening and I opened my heart to him, which made me feel a bit better and I could hear Charley sniffling about, which made me smile. His Mom is still in hospital, where everything seems to have ground to a halt for the weekend, and he is still going to visit her every time it’s allowed (a couple of two hour periods, one in the afternoon and one in the evening.) I tentatively brought up the possibility of his coming back here for just a couple of nights if his Mom’s stay in hospital is guaranteed for a week and he, to my pleasure, had been thinking along the same lines. On Saturday night, while I was at a birthday party in town, he rang my mobile to say that he and Charley would be driving back home on Wednesday, staying for the day on Thursday (which is my day off) and going back to Birmingham on Friday. It’s something for me to focus on if I do struggle for the next few days. I can’t wait to see them both.
So, a mixed report. Apologies for a miserable read, but writing about it is therapeutic.
I’d better get off my arse and investigate whether the TV just needs a new fuse. Then I must nip round to the shop and get myself some stuff for lunch next week. No rest for the wicked….
Bye for now.