Dignity
Last Tuesday morning, I was waiting in a wheelchair for a scan. I’d had a lot of pain in the night, and had been given a strong painkiller, so I felt fogged and dizzy, and worried about what the scan was going to show. I’d been admitted to hospital at the last minute, so I wasn’t really fully prepared and had to borrow one of those awful, open-backed hospital gowns, and had no slippers or bathrobe. In a very unusual lapse of consideration, the porter had brought me down to the radiology waiting room as I was, and had parked me by the reception desk, where I sat trying to pull the skimpy gown over my knees and hide the catheter bag behind my calves. I felt like a battered and unloved Ford Fiesta waiting on a garage forecourt for a service.
I started to feel rather sorry for myself.
