I drift in and out of sleep for much of the afternoon. I find hospitals aren’t places for deep sleep. Not unless you’ve been deliberately put under. Instead, you get this nauseating semi-consciousness, forever doomed to be woken by a medication trolley knocking against your bed or staff members calling to each other across the ward in loud voices.
It sounds strange, but at times I get the feeling I’m not alone. That there’s a figure standing by my bed. No, that’s not right – sitting. Sitting by my bed, in the chair meant for visitors.
Watching me.
The mixture of drugs and pain must be affecting my mood. Or perhaps it’s because of what’s happened to me. Whatever the reason, I find the sense of someone being near me but indistinguishable extremely unnerving. It’s like looking at a painting but knowing something’s just not quite right about it.
Worst of all, I think I know who it is, sitting there. In the room with me. I know it. And she’s the reason I’m here.
At one point, I wake up crying – not hysterically so, just with tears rolling out onto my pillow. A stressed-looking nurse passes my bed, then stops and turns back to look at me. I wonder if she’s torn between getting on with her work and the feeling that she should comfort me in some way or at least ask if I’m OK. But it turns out my presumption is wrong: there’s something specific she wants to ask me.
‘The police want to talk to you. They’ve gone away now, but they’ll be back, so long as you feel up to it.’
I tilt my head up a little, trying to focus on her. ‘They were here? The police were here?’
The nurse nods. ‘You were out of it then, but the nice officer I spoke to said they’d return. They need you to answer some questions about what happened.’
‘Right,’ I say, now trying to rub my eyes without moving my head too much. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready now, but I will be soon. I definitely want to speak to them. I have things I want to say.’