I spoke to another man in his fifties, who also had many
questions to ask, but I didn't mind at all. He had the myeloid
form, and seemed to be a hardened case. The sister said that,
throughout his periods of hospitalisation, he remained cheery
and positive. He would stir up the nurses, and when mobile, visit
others in the ward, dragging his three-wheeled drip stand behind
him. As we sat in the television room, he reminded me of the
first time I tried to have a shower while the I.V. drip was still
in place.
It was a disaster.
I couldn't remove my gown over the tubing, and as soon as
I had the water at the right temperature, the butterfly needle
dislodged slightly. I was restricted to using just my left hand.
I knew that the needle was about to come out, as the soggy
tape gave little support. I made a desperate bid to wash off the
few suds that I had created, then dashed back to my bed and
rang the buzzer. There remained a trail of puddles from the
shower to the bed.
My quest for independence had failed, and I was left with a
bed wash.

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