Luckily, in the majority of transfusions and IV drips that were set up, the smaller, more impressive butterfly needles were used. They rarely created much damage, and were easily inserted and removed. But you still had to be alert enough to prevent the nurse wrapping your arm or hand in layers of adhesive tape.
During my first week in hospital, four different men of the cloth came to visit me. Others in the ward probably thought that my number had come up. The visitors included the School Chaplain, the Alfred Hospital Chaplain, a family friend who is an Anglican Priest and our local Parish Vicar. I could never complain about the religious support I was given, especially from these four men. My faith was in the balance but without my knowledge it was growing.
Around four o'clock on a weekday afternoon, my mother arrived with a party of six or seven of my classmates. The visit was really appreciated after a week and a half of hospital routine. Their expressions were of a type I would soon become accustomed to - those of fear, concern and embarrassment.
"What's been happening around the place?" I asked.
I cannot recall the response, although I do remember seeing eyes directed at the floor. Cricket dominated the initial stilted conversation.
"Have I missed much?"
Some of the barrier had been broken, as they grabbed the opportunity to inform me about who was doing what. Classroom antics and matters of discipline. Saturday nights, parties and girls.
They came to the hospital with a common dilemma. What do you say to a friend who will probably die? I assume that their parents attempted to explain the disease to them. But how accurate would these descriptions have been? They must have been out-of-date, and based largely on heresay.
I found out later that they believed that there was little hope.
faffajane
Pro 
Hugs x