The Amy Winehouse reference has to be made. Every time you say to someone that you’re going to rehab, you get sung at….
So, after 3 weeks and 3 operations, I was medically stable enough to move from the Major Trauma Ward in to a specialist trauma rehabilitation centre. I didn’t know such things existed. An ambulance was booked to take me there in the afternoon. No idea what time. My friend Joe came in to see me before I left Fazakerley. And video’d me walking on the gutter frame………to post on Facebook. The old girl went for a hobble. And told Joe to sod off. Ha.
I got to go outside for the first time in 3 weeks (and 1 day). I was shipped off to St Helens on a stretcher. With many bags of shite. I know I’m a hoarder but even I think I took the piss with the amount of stuff I’d accumulated! Many pairs of bikini bottoms. Pyjamas. Baskets of gifts. All my technology. We got to St Helens without actually having a clue about the name of the ward I was going to. We got sent to one ward, where they didn’t know anything about me. This was a bit panicky. I was genuinely scared of what I was going to; I didn’t know what to expect and I’d built up a rapport with the staff at Fazakerley. I didn’t actually want to leave my comfort zone, where I felt safe and secure. Being sent to the wrong ward didn’t help. Then it was a bit of a nightmare actually finding the ward – how was anyone going to find me to come and see me??!! Eventually, we found Seddon Suite. The Rehabilitation Centre. There was a bit of confusion here, although I was expected at least. They needed to work out where I was going to be put……
Now, I’m not going to say that the first day and evening on the unit was great. It wasn’t. it was actually fucking awful. The thought of having to go to a dining room and eat with everyone else on the unit filled me with horror. I couldn’t imagine anything worse. I did have something to eat in my room that night though – I don’t think I could have faced the whole dining room thing straight off. I would also be required to get dressed. I’d spent the last 3 weeks in hospital gowns with an arse gap, or pyjamas. I’d only recently graduated to wearing pants again. And now I needed clothes. Oh. Shit. I also didn’t really know what the score was in terms off assistance here. I’d been used to people coming round to assist with getting ready for bed and that kind of thing. I had a private room with en suite, but had no means of getting to the en suite. I felt trapped and overwhelmed. I messaged my cousin via Facebook, having a massive panic. My cousin is awesome and knows how to calm me down. She reminded me that this was my spectrum side taking over. I pretty much hated everything about that first night and wanted to be “normal” and go home more than ever.
I did get some clothes. Most of my stuff had been packed up to go to a laundrette, so all that was left was a pair of yoga pants, a couple of jumpers, my Christmas day dress from a couple of years ago, an inappropriate bra, tummy control knickers, a lacy thong, and a pair of age 9-10 knickers (yes, child knickers). That was what was retrieved from my house for me. Oh well, I’d just have to manage! My first morning saw me getting a fellow “inmate” to neck orange juice with his meds in. Winner. Other than this, I can’t remember much about the first week. I got a gutter frame to use, so it meant I could at least get to and from the bathroom. I discovered that I would be doing physio nearly every day, and people were nice and welcoming. This was to be my new home for an unknown amount of time – the road to recovery had taken a new turn and I just had to keep on going.