She was admitted in the January of 2014.
That much she knows.
She also knows that she was admitted to the Singapore General Hospital, but which ward it was, what sort of ward it was, and how long she was in there, she doesn't know.
These details matter nothing to her.
And even if you did remind her, she wouldn't pay much attention to them either. Of what use is it, she'd say, knowing that I was in there a week? Of what use is it, she'd say, if I remember that I was in Ward 74 or that I was in the Neurology Ward?
"I know I had a stroke, and I know it was on my left side, that's all that is important, right?" she'd tell me.
In a way, it is true.
Not every patient needs, or wants, to know the details of what's happening to them. They know, innately, that something is wrong, that something has gone wrong, and they just want to know what to do, how to cope with it, or in some cases, how to get rid of it.
Miss Brown knew that something was definitely wrong with her. Her left side felt numb and heavy, she couldn't speak, she couldn't turn her head, she was having difficulty swallowing, and all she wanted to do was sleep, sleep, sleep and sleep.
Except that the medical personnel wouldn't let her.
They kept coming, one after the other. First the lead doctor came, telling her that she had suffered a stroke. Then after that, in succession, over the next couple of days, came the physiotherapist, the occupational therapist, the speech therapist, the dietician... Some came alone, some came with their horde of students, all standing around looking through files. And then there were the nurses. They came to check on her temperature, her blood pressure, this, that, this again, even in the middle of the night.
Her neighbour patients wouldn't let her off either.
There was always something, a movement, a noise, a shifting on the bed, a buzzer call, a call for the nurse.
It annoyed and frightened her, all of it.
They didn't seem to understand that all she needed was sleep. She was tired, so tired, and there was no better cure for an exhausted body than a good, hearty sleep. Just like it had always been, this time would be no different, she was sure, and if only she could be left alone to get her much needed rest, this discomfort would disappear and she would wake up feeling all refreshed and okay. Moreover, her family and caregivers had already brought down her favorite backpack, her tissue box, and her comb, and with such familiar things around her, she would sleep soundly, deeply, and well..
But no, they wouldn't let her sleep as much as she wanted.
Not the doctors, not the nurses, not the therapists, heck, not even her caregivers. Not a single one of them would give her what she wanted.
First day she was thirsty and called out desperately for water, but the nurses said she couldn't swallow and would choke herself if given water, so she had to make do with ice chips inserted into her mouth or slathered over her parched lips.
Second day they said she could no longer go on the drip and since she had been tested by the speech therapist who pronounced her unable to swallow, they had to do the nasogastric feeding tube, so Miss Brown had to endure the extreme discomfort and pain of it going through her nose down her esophagus to her stomach. She hated it so much she cried and wondered to herself what it was she did wrong.
Third day she slept, interrupted only by the nurses and more therapists who came to check on her and who put her onto the big pink chair for half an hour, saying that it was time for her to sit up instead of reclining on the bed the entire time. Along with the chair, they'd brought along a series of toys, tools, something, that they instructed her to pick up with her left hand and move them from one cup to the other. It was mentally numbing, physically challenging, and in any case, this chair they'd put her in was so comfortable she fell asleep.
Fourth day and fifth, the powers that be decided that because yesterday she hadn't fallen off the big pink chair, it meant that she was well enough(!!) to get out of bed and go to the therapy room for group therapy, so despite her reluctance, despite the fact that she still wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep, they put her onto a clunky wheelchair and wheeled her out of the ward to the room on the other wing.
Dazed and tired and fatigued, but with some assistance, she forced herself to stand up, hold the bar, and, together with the other five patients in the same group, listened to the instructions of the therapist who kept asking them to raise their right leg, their left, their right, their left, their right arm, their left arm, and so on. She couldn't follow the instructions as well as the others did, but none of them were suffering from an ailment that immobilized their entire left side. And as if that weren't enough, after all the limb lifting, they had her walk a bit, across a brick, up a brick, down a brick, before finally putting her back in the wheelchair and wheeling her back to her bed.
Fifth day and sixth, they removed the offending tube from her nostrils- she could not have been more overjoyed- and gave her some green puree thing for her meal. Today was the day she tried to conjure up some interest in her surroundings, but she was really tired, and gave up after reading one page of the newspaper.
On the seventh day, when it was nearly time for her to be discharged, in trooped everyone again, therapists, junior doctors and dietician, whom, after making it for certain with her family and caregivers that she was not going to go to their community hospital, rattled off a whole bunch of instructions to them, what they had to do, what they were not supposed to do.
They gave the medicine slip, packed up the thickeners and last of all, taught her caregivers how to bodily shift her from the bed to the chair, but because they needed practice, she had to subject herself to their carefully orchestrated rehearsals in full sight of the rest of the patients.
It was so embarrassing.
Still, if all of it meant that she was on her way out of this ward back home to her own bed and her own bathroom, where her daughter and her daughter's boyfriend would be there to take good care of her, then all was fine and good.
After all, she could rely on her daughter the same way she did the last time she was seriously hospitalized. Sure, they were busy with work this time, but they had dropped by for a visit every evening, bringing along her favorite Chinese newspapers and a cup of coffee from McDonalds which her daughter put down on the table in front of her.
That much she knows.
She also knows that she was admitted to the Singapore General Hospital, but which ward it was, what sort of ward it was, and how long she was in there, she doesn't know.
These details matter nothing to her.
And even if you did remind her, she wouldn't pay much attention to them either. Of what use is it, she'd say, knowing that I was in there a week? Of what use is it, she'd say, if I remember that I was in Ward 74 or that I was in the Neurology Ward?
"I know I had a stroke, and I know it was on my left side, that's all that is important, right?" she'd tell me.
In a way, it is true.
Not every patient needs, or wants, to know the details of what's happening to them. They know, innately, that something is wrong, that something has gone wrong, and they just want to know what to do, how to cope with it, or in some cases, how to get rid of it.
Miss Brown knew that something was definitely wrong with her. Her left side felt numb and heavy, she couldn't speak, she couldn't turn her head, she was having difficulty swallowing, and all she wanted to do was sleep, sleep, sleep and sleep.
Except that the medical personnel wouldn't let her.
They kept coming, one after the other. First the lead doctor came, telling her that she had suffered a stroke. Then after that, in succession, over the next couple of days, came the physiotherapist, the occupational therapist, the speech therapist, the dietician... Some came alone, some came with their horde of students, all standing around looking through files. And then there were the nurses. They came to check on her temperature, her blood pressure, this, that, this again, even in the middle of the night.
Her neighbour patients wouldn't let her off either.
There was always something, a movement, a noise, a shifting on the bed, a buzzer call, a call for the nurse.
It annoyed and frightened her, all of it.
They didn't seem to understand that all she needed was sleep. She was tired, so tired, and there was no better cure for an exhausted body than a good, hearty sleep. Just like it had always been, this time would be no different, she was sure, and if only she could be left alone to get her much needed rest, this discomfort would disappear and she would wake up feeling all refreshed and okay. Moreover, her family and caregivers had already brought down her favorite backpack, her tissue box, and her comb, and with such familiar things around her, she would sleep soundly, deeply, and well..
But no, they wouldn't let her sleep as much as she wanted.
Not the doctors, not the nurses, not the therapists, heck, not even her caregivers. Not a single one of them would give her what she wanted.
First day she was thirsty and called out desperately for water, but the nurses said she couldn't swallow and would choke herself if given water, so she had to make do with ice chips inserted into her mouth or slathered over her parched lips.
Second day they said she could no longer go on the drip and since she had been tested by the speech therapist who pronounced her unable to swallow, they had to do the nasogastric feeding tube, so Miss Brown had to endure the extreme discomfort and pain of it going through her nose down her esophagus to her stomach. She hated it so much she cried and wondered to herself what it was she did wrong.
Third day she slept, interrupted only by the nurses and more therapists who came to check on her and who put her onto the big pink chair for half an hour, saying that it was time for her to sit up instead of reclining on the bed the entire time. Along with the chair, they'd brought along a series of toys, tools, something, that they instructed her to pick up with her left hand and move them from one cup to the other. It was mentally numbing, physically challenging, and in any case, this chair they'd put her in was so comfortable she fell asleep.
Fourth day and fifth, the powers that be decided that because yesterday she hadn't fallen off the big pink chair, it meant that she was well enough(!!) to get out of bed and go to the therapy room for group therapy, so despite her reluctance, despite the fact that she still wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep, they put her onto a clunky wheelchair and wheeled her out of the ward to the room on the other wing.
Dazed and tired and fatigued, but with some assistance, she forced herself to stand up, hold the bar, and, together with the other five patients in the same group, listened to the instructions of the therapist who kept asking them to raise their right leg, their left, their right, their left, their right arm, their left arm, and so on. She couldn't follow the instructions as well as the others did, but none of them were suffering from an ailment that immobilized their entire left side. And as if that weren't enough, after all the limb lifting, they had her walk a bit, across a brick, up a brick, down a brick, before finally putting her back in the wheelchair and wheeling her back to her bed.
Fifth day and sixth, they removed the offending tube from her nostrils- she could not have been more overjoyed- and gave her some green puree thing for her meal. Today was the day she tried to conjure up some interest in her surroundings, but she was really tired, and gave up after reading one page of the newspaper.
On the seventh day, when it was nearly time for her to be discharged, in trooped everyone again, therapists, junior doctors and dietician, whom, after making it for certain with her family and caregivers that she was not going to go to their community hospital, rattled off a whole bunch of instructions to them, what they had to do, what they were not supposed to do.
They gave the medicine slip, packed up the thickeners and last of all, taught her caregivers how to bodily shift her from the bed to the chair, but because they needed practice, she had to subject herself to their carefully orchestrated rehearsals in full sight of the rest of the patients.
It was so embarrassing.
Still, if all of it meant that she was on her way out of this ward back home to her own bed and her own bathroom, where her daughter and her daughter's boyfriend would be there to take good care of her, then all was fine and good.
After all, she could rely on her daughter the same way she did the last time she was seriously hospitalized. Sure, they were busy with work this time, but they had dropped by for a visit every evening, bringing along her favorite Chinese newspapers and a cup of coffee from McDonalds which her daughter put down on the table in front of her.