Day 1 Admission Day Thursday 16/11/17

I phone at lunchtime and it isn’t good news, the hospital is booked out and I will be sharing. At this stage I am ready to bail, I ask if there is the possibility of moving to a private room the following day but am told there isn’t a guarantee. I spend most of the day crying on and off as nine days in a hospital for a procedure that has a slim chance of working is a big ask, but having to share a room is the final straw for me. Nick tells me that if I can’t continue it’s ok and we can go home, but I decide to hang onto the belief that I will get my room when it is important, in two days' time.

We arrive at the hospital mid-afternoon and the admissions lady says that she is aware that I am happy to pay for a private room and tells me to keep on insisting on it. As I am taken by a nurse to the room I am crying on and off. Other nurses come to check on me and are trying to help the situation, the staff are all lovely. I have the curtain totally around my bed, trying to make my own private room. My roommate is elderly and quiet but she has her television on continually which I find annoying, but it is very low so she is doing her best.

I am told I am getting a PICC line in tomorrow and this requires an x-ray and a doctor. Up unto now I haven’t been given any information about this procedure so this comes as a surprise.

Nick and our daughter Khloe arrive after work and we all go out to a local restaurant for dinner. After they go home I go back to my room, do some work and try hard to keep my emotions in check.

My room is right next to the nurse’s station and the patient’s buzzers go off loudly and constantly. I count the time between the buzzers and on average they are every 10 seconds, I try closing the door but it doesn’t make any difference.

At 11pm the nurse comes in to take my blood pressure and check my oxygen levels which I think is unnecessary as there isn’t anything wrong with me. Surprisingly she says that I’m not making the required oxygen levels and I should take some deep breaths. I speak to her about the fact that I can only do the next nine days if I have my own space and that I don’t know how I am going to sleep. She is lovely and says she will try to message the doctor to arrange a sleeping pill, but obviously it is very late. She also says she will see if she can get me moved tomorrow. I am also told that another lady who was booked in for the infusion at the same time as me has left because she didn't get a private room - I am almost hot on her heels.

She comes back at 12 and gives me what I think she said was a Valium. I feel like such a baby but it seems that the older I get the more important it is that I get what I need. Growing up in the 60’s meant being seen and not heard and downplaying all emotion. It has taken me until this stage of my life to be able to voice my emotions and not to pretend that I am ok when I know I’m not, and now I know I need help.