There is no dignity in hospital.

You become a piece of meat, rolled, wiped, needled and measured. More women have seen my junk in those few weeks than my entire adult life. Normally this might seem a bonus but I suspect I wasn’t presenting at my best. I have vague memories of a woman with her hand very firmly around my penis inserting a tube down the urethra. That thing was going in no matter what.

There is the indignity of being rolled onto your side and having your bum wet wiped like a baby after dumping into a bedpan. And once the urinary catheter was removed the reduction of bladder control and the awkwardness of peeing into a bottle where every movement is a painful urgency.

Time and days seems to melt. There is just now. Nurses complete shifts and the faces recycle but it was impossible to know or feel any ‘when’ but despite that loss of chronology the time seemed to pass quickly.

Gradually, daily, wires and tubes are removed. Sutures unpicked on a chest cratered like a WWI battlefield. “Deep breath and hold” and a tube is whipped out from your torso with a magicians flourish. The last to be removed were the pacemaker wires. A two core electrical cable that apparently ended at the base of the heart. Unused but kept in anyway, it came out unceremoniously, the bare ends of wire slightly wet.

Recovery seems as much psychological as physical. Being able to sit up unaided. The milestone of being able get to a real toilet to pee and poo under your own steam. The ability to stand under a shower and soap yourself down. Walking with a frame, then a stick, then unaided. The reclaiming of dignity.

There is a definite step change from being in intensive to being released onto the general ward. In intensive there is a nurse in diligent attendance of two beds. On general it’s a lot more of ‘sort yourself out’ with many of the nurses taking a rather by-rote approach. You can call them, but don’t assume a response anytime soon. One example was the ‘get you out of bed and sat in a chair’ dictate which resulted in being next to a very cold window. I’d lost feeling in my hands and feet and was so cold it was painful and I was becoming incoherent. The nurses’ casual response was to slap some more blankets over me and take my blood pressure (again), but neither of those is going to help with the onset of hypothermia. When the consultant came around his simple instruction was ‘move him somewhere warmer’.

While it doesn’t feel good to be an awkward patient it was an example of the need to not just accept what happens. Next morning I refused to get out of bed until I had warmed up sufficiently and had the furniture rearranged so the chair wasn’t next to the window.

There is something about the whole hospital experience which has made me a lot less bothered about upsetting others and more willing to just say what I want.

I’d been admitted with nothing more than a phone so the days in general were blank slates. There is a timetable of observation and recording variables such as blood pressure, a pattern of meals, tea ladies, consultants and medications. Surprisingly quickly the days passed until I was released with all the eagerness of an endangered animal. From there it has been a case of taking each day as it comes, steadily building walks and movement. Reading, writing and taking naps. A carrier-bag of medications. Each day the sternum (which is broken open to access the heart) feels stronger and the chest muscles feel less bruised. Breathing becomes easier. As Cheryl Crow would sing “Everyday is a winding road … I get a little bit closer to feeling fine”