The trouble started with a visit to the facilities, as Paddington would have called them. I was in hospital having kidney scans when I began to need the loo.
Sat on the toilet, my business done, I found I couldn’t get up. I was going to be there, as Captain Oates put it, ‘some time.’
I’ve learnt breathing exercises for this kind of situation; I really didn’t fancy doing them in the loo.
I couldn’t get up however hard I tried; my muscles were too weak.
Within moments, I felt trapped, desperate, close to tears. How to escape this small, windowless room? This embarrassment . . .
It didn’t help my knickers had dropped to my ankles; my bottom was hovering naked above the pan. My boho cotton top didn’t go anything like low enough to cover me.
Pulling the red panic cord to the right of the loo, it felt thin and fragile. Could it work?
It did.
Stay calm, carry on
“Try not to panic,” said the hassled-looking nurse who arrived to help. “How much do you weigh?”
Confused, I told her, unsure why she was asking.
“Don’t worry.” She did some sums on a device, pausing every so often to scrutinise my body. “We can use the hoist on you, it’ll take your weight, if it must. We’ll try other things first.”
Hoist? If it must? It was awkward interacting with strangers while perched on the loo. She had all the power, I felt unable to ask questions.
The nurse looked again at my tummy, assumed a doubtful expression and tapped at her device.
“We can use the hoist. But only if necessary.”
“Right.” I didn’t have a clue about hoists, except Shakespeare said they could be useful exacting justice.
“I’m asking a colleague to come and look at you too.”
“But my bottom . . .” Not having pants bothered me, why couldn’t she understand?
“Don’t worry. We’ve seen it all before.”
But not my bottom. None of them had ever seen that before. “I really don’t want anyone seeing my bum. Please.”
“We’ve put a screen across the door.”
True enough, I thought I’d heard ominous clanking in the corridor that sounded like the Grim Reaper sharpening his scythe. Would that help?
“It’s only other women who’ll see you.” She looked fed up with knicker-related complaints.
“It’s still embarrassing.” I’d become a frightened child.
She looked at me like I really needed to shut up.
Meekly, I did so.
People and bridges
Another low, discreet knock on the door; a second woman joined us.
She too began judging my size in a brisk, impersonal way, not unlike a structural engineer inspecting a bridge.
“I don’t have my pants on,” I told the new arrival, feeling like I was back at primary school and having an ‘accident’ in the playground. Nothing would be okay until I’d got back what little was left of my modesty.
“Don’t you worry, we’ll cover you up.” I got the message; those pants would be doing exactly what she told them.
The two women came closer, put their arms under me and tried to lift me. It didn’t work; I was too weak; the toilet too low.
The women whispered to each other, discussing something called an Up Stand Assist. What a name, I thought, feeling discouraged by the ridiculous nomenclature.
Someone else arrived, a third woman. She spoke with an eastern European accent and looked easily the most frightening of the lot, like she’d seen things nobody should ever have to see. Things you couldn’t forget seeing. I should have known she’d be the one to help me the most.
Introductions would have felt silly, with me stuck on the loo. We didn’t shake hands either. Another relief; mine weren’t clean.
Talking in whispers
After leaving the room, the new woman returned, wheeling a large and padded metal contraption.
Three care assistants, the contraption, me – oh, and my husband too. It was getting crowded. We tried getting me up with the new device. That didn’t work either, but I did manage to refrain from mentioning my knickers.
The three women talked in whispers among themselves, huddled around the wash hand basin.
“How would you feel about us using a hoist?” someone asked me in a louder voice, making it sound like they wanted me to go over the top in the First World War. “You don’t have to do it,” she added, making me feel even more doomed.
“Fine, whatever you think best.”
“We want this to be your decision,” someone said.
“I’m happy to do what you want.” They were the professionals, not me.
“Is that a sign-off?”
“Yes, it is,” I felt cross. Could they not just get on with it? Why the formality? How dangerous was this hoist?
Space was tight; the team shuffled large pieces of piping, harnesses and frames around. Space remained tight.
“Into position,” ordered one of the nurses.
As the eastern European nurse was getting me ready, I realised she would be the one to help me.
“I don’t suppose you could help me with my pants?” I whispered to her quietly, giving her a look intended to indicate I could reimburse her and also that I wasn’t going to my death without my pants.
“Sure.” No arguments. No forms. No bureaucracy. She got this. Reaching her plastic-gloved hand down past my bottom, she put it even further down, then a bit lower still. With her hand, she pulled the contentious item of clothing back up to where it was meant to be.
Pants matter
I felt decent again. Whole. Human.
While doing that, without me even noticing, she’d also inserted the harness under me.
She stood back, looked me seriously in the eyes. “Okay?”
“All good.” I nodded for emphasis. “Thank you.”
She demurred. I hoped she knew how good she was.
That said, I was still stuck on the loo, about to risk my life in a contraption that belonged in a Wallace and Gromit movie. On the bright side, I’d at least got my pants on again.
The same nurse who’d helped me with my pants pressed some buttons. Up into the air I slowly went; people steadying me.
She brought me to a halt with a hand-held controller, stepped over and unbuckled me.
I was free. I hugged her like she had saved my life.
Helen Fowler Writer 