I sat on my hospital bed on a Saturday morning early in September last year. I was eagerly awaiting the end of rounds so I could be discharged. I was finally eating and felt much better. The new round of medication I was put on was doing something, I could feel it. I was, though, thoroughly frustrated. I had hardly slept in a week and I was uncomfortable in the ward. I was craving my bedroom and private bathroom. I was looking forward to washing my hair and taking a bath. I sat cross legged on my bed, unaware of how thin I had become and how breathless I was, my eagerness to be released from the ward was overwhelming my common sense.
My doctor came over just after midday with discharge papers and a large box of tablets. I was explained how to take them and when, what to look out for if things started to turn again, and to return a week later for a check up and more medications. I was dizzy with excitement. It wasn’t in reality, it was my medication making my brain fuzzy and cloudy. Things were starting to fall apart even before I had left. I walked out, out of breath by the time we got to the car.
I was back within a week for clinic and admitted. I was to under go the most painful but necessary stay of that flare up. I was to be diagnosed with Serve Crohn’s of the Colon. I was very sick. I was sick when I left that Saturday afternoon and the regret of that moment was apparent every step forward since then. It was only when my counsellor pointed out, more than six months afterwards, that it was so very necessary. Thank goodness for the clinic appointment. It was my turn towards worse times. But they got better. They did, eventually.