Saturday brought another night of disturbed sleep, although checks were now much less frequent - I forget what frequency we were on now. The other patients in my section of the ward were now relaxed, free of anaesthetic, and snoring. I've always considered myself able to sleep just about anywhere, and any time, but not through this. This was like the worst ever song, played on the ugliest guitar.
I used my broken sleep as little excuses to get up and amble about. I was becoming much more proficient on my feet, and was a now a regular visitor to the loo, and had made occasional trips to the nurses station. Why? Because i needed something to plug my ears with, and because I could. My legs were getting stronger, and I was now convinced that they were still attached to my hips. Most importantly, my confidence in my ability to get around was growing.
Now this was Sunday. I had last showered on Friday morning, and in the meantime, had been almost exclusively in bed (not a good look, or smell), and my hair was two halves of a tangled, matted hairpiece, full of blood, plasma and cerebrospinal-spinal fluid. I had washed at my bedside, but there is something about a shower that a bed-bath can't touch. I had eyed the nearest shower with envy, and this morning, I had an itch no other washing medium could scratch. I asked the nurses for 'permission', as I was sure there would be cautionary notes to go with the experience, and embarked on my first shower since the surgery, with strict instructions not to wet my wound.
All signs of discomfort from the top of my head were gone, and with a careful prod, I could feel that the combination of staples and newly formed scab were holding things firm. What I didn't want to do, was set the healing back. I embarked on the shower as if I was a caveman seeing one for the first time. I carefully experimented with the controls, and got the water to a good temperature. I carefully removed my t-shirt which I had chosen badly on account of the lack of give in the neck. I hesitated for a moment, delaying the pleasure briefly, before getting under the water. Bliss. I resisted the urge to let the water flow through my hair, allowing myself to use a little shower gel around the bottom of my hairline, and had my first proper wash in over two days.
I hovered under the running water knowing full-well that I was done already, as I truly appreciated a shower for the first time. I had started to appreciate simple pleasures in a new way since awakening from the operation, and this was another example - a modern mainstay of most homes that we take massively for granted.
I dried myself off, refusing out of principle to use the plastic seat which was fitted in the cubicle, and cast a look in the mirror. I stopped for a moment, and looked in my eyes. Previously when looking in the mirror, I would see what everyone else sees - face, features, hair...the usual really. This was my first proper look in the mirror since the operation, and my focus was drawn elsewhere. I looked directly into my own eyes, and rather than seeing colours, shapes and structures, I saw a steely resolve that I had not recognised before. I was frozen in position, and the truth of the last few days dawned on me. I had dodged a bullet, and would now be able to take control of my life again.
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