The Prisoner was a British television series created by Patrick McGoohan. McGoohan is Number Six, who is abducted and imprisoned in a mysterious coastal village.The man becomes acquainted with the residents, all seeming to be peacefully and mostly enjoyably living out their lives.
Number Two, the Village administrator, uses techniques such as hallucinogenic drugs, mind control and forms of social indoctrination and physical coercion in attempt to make Number Six co-operate.
1.30 a.m. My bedtime drink is made. I’ve just transferred to my other wheelchair, a perfect transfer (I’m always careful when doing this when alone in the flat, powering off the chair and keeping a good margin for balance, etc.). I reach over and power on the chair I have just left, so I can park and charge it. The chair I’m sitting in is powered off. I stretch to move the other chair.
BANG! The chair I’m in whizzes across the room and crashes into the cabinet next to my desk (I will learn later, a faulty switch has been activated by the weight of my tee-shirt sleeve). I am thrown across the (still active) chair joystick; Head and shoulders outside the chair, lower body draped in front of the seat cushion. I try to lift myself from the control, to stop the chair from jerking, but can’t, neither can I fall to the floor. Eventually I manage to reach my panic alarm button, it takes two hands to press the stiff button. When the ‘responder’ comes through, I can only groan; She promises help. Twenty minutes later a Saint Johns Ambulance man and woman let themselves in with my key-safe. They lift me back into my chair. They call emergency services and a paramedic arrives; After assessment, a ‘blue light’ ambulance arrives.
My speech (always impaired) is bad; I am in shock and in pain; I have extensive bruising to my ribs and my hips. Everyone assumes I fell whilst transferring between chairs; this is not so, the transfer was perfect.
The ambulance crew are pressing me to go to A & E (“Just to make sure you don’t have any broken bones”); Against my better judgement, I agree. After an agonising ride in the ambulance chair, I’m transferred to a trolley. After a while I am trollied into Queen Elizabeth Hospital A & E and admitted.
Helpless
I’m still on my trolley in a bay, off the main A & E corridor, I have my own nurse, seated at her computer terminal. She is constantly checking my blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels as she monitors.
Why all this trouble? I only came in to find out if I had any broken bones.
11.30 p.m. My trolley jerks me out of my semi-sleep, 2 hospital porters are starting to take me somewhere.
Where are we going?
M.R.I. scan.
I call the nurse and explain that I have claustrophobia and can’t possibly go into that tunnel. She asks me to ‘give it a try’, she explains that I will be given a ‘panic button’, and if I can’t bear it they will stop, she tells me that she will be with me all the time.
I’m transferred to the scanner platform, and am horrified to see I’m going in ‘head-first’, so no matter what part of me is being scanned, my head will be inside the tunnel.
Stop!
No response.
Stop! I do not give you permission!
The radiologist is very tall, and well built. She wraps me in a thick canvas sheet with strong Velcro, my arms pinned to my sides. There’s no sign of a panic button (If there were, I couldn’t reach it). I’m in severe pain from my ‘trussed-up’ bruises, and my claustrophobia is in ‘overdrive’. I repeat over, and over, Stop! I do not give you permission! Not a word is spoken to me. The scan is completed and I’m returned to my bay in a state of deep shock. I have just been criminally assaulted!
My sleep will all now be ‘wakeful’, I will never allow this to happen again.
Alarm Bells
6 p.m. next day, two porters arrive.
Where are we going?
M.R.I. scan.
Stop, I do not give you permission!
Hospital porters, with their strong union ties, are far more ‘clued-in’ to civil rights issues than the nurses and want no part of it. They melt away.
2 p.m. Doctor’s round. I explain to him my gender issues, and tell him I do not give permission for a catheter to be fitted. He makes notes. I tell him, No more M.R.I. scans. He nods agreement.
We were going to look at your bowel but your ulcer has a slight bleed so we won’t be doing it.
I wouldn’t have given permission anyway, I reply. What is this obsession the medical profession have about bowels? I only agreed to come in to see if I had any broken bones!
The doctor continues;
Have you considered moving somewhere there is help all the time?
(This is the medical jargon for, 'Do you want to go into a nursing home').
No way!
The doctor looks shocked. I know now that I am held captive for 2 weeks, until my care plan runs out, then they can shunt my into a nursing home! Well, they don’t know of my history of activism, of the links I have made through it. Neither do they of my stubborn streak, and I’m not letting on! Two more late night/early morning attempts are made to take me for M.R.I. but I refuse both.
Next day I am transferred from my trolley into a hospital bed and taken to the female geriatric ward (Well, at least they got the gender right!).
I Get My Number
Ward 55, bed 1. 55-1 above my bed.
Just as Number 6, in ‘The Prisoner’, I inwardly cry out, “I am not a number, I am a free person!
A surly nurse sees me into the ward, I explain I have claustrophobia and can’t sleep in the dark or without my head and shoulders raised; she leaves my bed-light on and my pillows raised (the only concessions she will make during my stay there). A woman is wailing in bed 55-5, A man in the next ward is constantly chanting “Dolly, Dolly”. How will I bear this place? I am soon to discover though, these people are only ‘demented’ by their status in this ward and need sympathy, not tolerance.
5.30 a.m. The surly nurse who’d seen me in last night, takes my blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels; Her name badge says Sylvia, I will learn that she is the senior ‘nurse in charge’, when on duty.
My PAs have been brilliant! Andrea has set up a WhatsApp group to make sure I get at least one visitor each day. My ‘bestie’, Sue, comes in regularly, in spite of being really busy, protesting against the Assisted Dying Bill.
Hospital food is hopeless; I have level 5 dysphagia, and all of my meals should be blended; The menu has choices for vegetarian, vegan and gluten-free, but no blended food. The kitchen staff have neither the time or patience to try to understand my speech. I usually wind-up with either soup or gravy with mashed potato; this is always stone cold by the time the busy nurses give it to me, so I usually only have ice cream. Eating in a reclining position is risky with my breathing problems. Maria is bringing in cake, that I eat carefully, this is a ‘life saver!
The hospital bed is my prison; Pillows everywhere restrict my arm and leg movement (I’m convinced this is intentional, and not just misplaced concern).
6.00 a.m. Nurse Sylvia, and another, come to give me a wash. The bed is wet; Though I am female in gender, my body is male (due to ‘gender corrective surgery’ in infancy). They are putting on the urine pad as if I had a female form and I’m peeing over the top of it. Because of all the pillows, I’m not able to correct this.
Nurse Sylvia turns out to be the worst kind; she is a ‘power junkie’, with no interest in the patients in her ‘care’. She is definitely not a contender for Mensa! She lugs me onto my side, ignoring my bruised ribs, crashing my knee against the bed’s cot side, lunges the bedding under me and then lugs me to my right side in the same rough way. All of the other (male and female) nurses carry out the same tasks, but none of them hurt me in the way she does! The routine never changes, always rough, always painful; Sylvia thrusts a pillow between my legs, I throw it out, After 3 times it stays out; she then starts stuffing pillows between my body and the cot sides, she wins round 1 of this battle saying, “You’re hurting your knee on the side” (I resist the temptation to remind her of just who is hurting my knee, but I know she’s dismissed me as being just another helpless geriatric’, and it suits me to let her think this for now).
After a couple of these forays, I manage to explain to one of the other nurses about the pad, she ‘gets it’, and regularly sneaks back when Sylvia is busy elsewhere and puts it right.
It’s boring having to constantly refuse the twice daily invitations to take laxatives, but I do, and they are taken away; I’m used to constipation, and know I can hold out for a few more days. There is no way I’m going through the pain and humiliation of sitting on a bed-pan under Sylvia’s supervision, that would really consolidate her position as boss!
Non co-operation is comparatively easy with treatments taken by mouth, other procedures creep up on you; I was laying in bed after early morning blood pressure, etc., Sylvia came and started fiddling with my canular; Thinking it was more of the hydration liquid they had given me in A & E, I didn’t take much notice, but when I looked, it was clear she had set up a blood transfusion. Not a word was spoken by Sylvia, and she certainly didn’t ask my permission; Another criminal assault!
I need a plan; My speech impairment masks my I.Q., my experience and my character, I’ll keep it that way as much as possible.
My ‘Bestie’, Sue, is visiting, she has a large wheelchair accessible van.
“Sue, I need a big favour”.
“Yes?”
“Will you pick up my power-chair and some clothes from my flat? My neighbour has the key-safe number. He knows you and will let you in”.
Sue is really busy this week campaigning against The Assisted Dying Bill, but promises to do this for me, Sue arrives with the chair and clothes the next day; Part one of my plan is complete.
Sylvia is wearing her ‘benign’ smile that she keeps for when visitors are around.
There
are no remote controls to raise the bed etc., all the buttons are on
the outside of the cot side (out of sight and reach of us ‘gerrys’).
This is really annoying, because I have to ask every time I need to
move.
Maria is here; I get her to flatten the knee raiser, which is restricting my ability to move. The pillows are removed from my side and placed behind me to prop me up more. I throw a triumphant glance at Sylvia, but she’s too busy beaming at the visitors, trying to show them how caring she is (Gosh, if she could read my mind just now she’d have me in a straight-jacket, in a side ward!).
The next afternoon I’m hoisted into my chair; Immediately I’m able to start moving my limbs, though I’m very weak. I start by tidying my bedside table, placing the things I need closer to the edge for better access, now I can reach the menu and get my drinks through a straw without having to ask. The nurses seem curious about why just getting out of bed could make me so much more mobile, but it’s precisely what I expected. If you stop a disabled person moving pretty soon we aren’t able to move at all (only Sylvia understands this, and makes full use of it!).
When Sylvia sees me in my chair, she is in ‘full, ebullient, patronising mode; She drags out the old crack about having a driving licence (You know, the one that wasn’t funny when I got my first powerchair 40 years ago); I don’t want her to see the ‘real’ me yet and decide to ‘play-along’. After this I explore some of the corridors.
The following day, the nurses are so busy that I’m not hoisted into my chair, but I elicit a promise from one the senior nurses that I will be hoisted out after breakfast tomorrow.
Sylvia turns off my bed light (as usual). I call her back with the buzzer,10 minutes later and ask her to turn it back on, which she sullenly does. I think, with a smile, ‘Well Sylvia, tomorrow you get to meet the real me!’
I learned to play chess in the 1970s, I was never a good player, but I did learn to see several moves ahead; I have been using this ability to plan my strategy. Tomorrow, I will discharge myself from hospital, but nobody but I can know this. I have a long night ahead of me; I must prevent any ‘procedures’ being carried out, when half asleep, that could keep me conveniently in bed and powerless, so not a word about going home until I’m securely in my chair and can’t be returned to bed without a big scene.
I stay awake all night, mostly praying. I pray individually for the people in this ward, powerless against Sylvia and the doctors who ‘turn a blind eye’ to the way she operates, and then for all the poor people who have suffered and will suffer at the hands of Sylvia and her ilk. I pray for guidance and strength for tomorrow. I keep praying all night (There are plenty of people and situations to pray for!).
Sylvia comes in at 6.30 for the usual blood pressure routine, I’m ready for her but nothing else is attempted; Then the bed-bath ritual at 7.00.
Breakfast is over and I start to nag the nurses about getting up and by 10 I’m in my chair. Andrea is due at 14.00, so I have a ‘wander’ for a while before starting my plain. At 12.00 I go to the Nurses Station and ask the clerical officer for news of my discharge today, she calls Sylvia.
“We want you to stay until Monday”.
Monday is the day my care plan (their language) runs out, but Sylvia doesn’t credit me with the ability to work that out!
“I’m going home today”.
“Monday”.
“I’ll have a self-discharge form please”
“I won’t give it to you”, (Triumph in her voice).
“That’s illegal”.
“I won’t give it to you”.
Sylvia returns to her chalkboard rota.
It’s 13.30 and I’m still ‘sitting-in’’.
Sylvia returns, smarmy and patronising now.
“Why don’t you get your dinner, It’ll be cold”.
“I’ll get my dinner, but I’ll be back to continue”.
“Yes, come back and continue” (through her hollow smile).
She follows me into the ward, “This is cold, I’ll get you something else”.
My
new dinner arrives about the same time as Andrea, so I’m spared Sylvia
giving me my food. On discovering unblended, lumpy soup I settle for the
ice cream only.
Andrea and I head for the Nurses Station; She knows
her role, not to answer direct questions, and to repeat all I say
verbatim, she will be my voice.
Sylvia comes over, she’s back to her usual surly manner.
“What you want?”
Surely, she didn’t think I’d give up after a bit of soft-soap
Andrea is brilliant, when asked direct questions she refers Sylvia back to me and repeats everything I say clearly; She doesn’t respond to Sylvia’s ‘needling’.
“A fine advocate you are, agreeing with her!”
I’m tempted to remind her that Andrea is here to support me, and not Nurse Sylvia, but decide it would be lost on her, so I let it pass.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll call the doctor, and he’ll explain why you have to stay ‘til Monday”.
(Oh, I’m fully aware of why you want me to stay ‘till Monday you crafty cow!")
“I’ll talk to your doctor, but I’m going home today!
We wait a while and young doctor appears, looking anxious; He’s waffling about how it wouldn’t be safe for me to go home until I had a hoist fitted, etc., etc.
“Doctor”.
“Yes”.
“You know nothing about me!
“I realise that I know less than you know yourself”.
“No, you know nothing about me, I am going home today!
“We can’t let you go”.
“Then we’ll just leave”.
“You can’t do that”.
“When I’m through here I’m calling my Civil Rights solicitor”.
(The doctor’s face goes white; He obviously ‘turns a blind-eye’ to Sylvia’s methods but wouldn’t want to be seen publicly as an accessory), he rushes Sylvia into a huddle and soon they return.
“We will give you the form if you insist, but my advice to you is ‘blah, blah’”.
“Thank you for your advice doctor, which is noted, but I shall not be taking it on this occasion”.
Repeated questions about ‘are you sure you are aware of the risk of discharging yourself’, but ‘it’s all over, bar the shouting’.
Sylvia thrusts the self-discharge form at me, proffering a pen, “Left or right?”.
If I had a wad of spare cash, I’d happily give it to the first person that passed, to see the expression on her face, this is a very angry Nurse (no longer in charge)! In one last act of spite, Sylvia removes all the nurses from the ward and the nurses station.
Andrea and I return to the ward, where Maria is waiting. I’m soon dressed, a lone nurse comes and removes my canular.
I’d expected to go home on the 486 bus (which is virtually door-to-door), but Andrea has called Sue, who will be here in about an hour. As we wait for her to arrive, I break out into a chorus of Queen, ‘I Want to Break Free’.
Summing-Up
Over the past 7 or 8 years I have been going through something of a decline; Eating less, because of my dysphagia, not going out because of the restrictions this building puts on me, that has led to less activity, and then less ability to move. I knew I had a big problem, but I was too weak to deal with it.
I needed to go through this hell to show me what the alternative to not dealing with my issues would be.
I am eating double the amount I was last year, and though I haven’t gained any weight yet, I am much stronger, both physically and emotionally and more active than I have been for years.
I thank God for my self-assertiveness, my stubborn streak, my Civil Rights background, and the fact that I know something about strategy; without these, I’d have surely been ‘banged-up’ like the other poor sods.
There has to be a cost-cutting agreement (prrobably unwritten) between Queen Eliizabeth's Hospital and Bexley Council, the social worker was always just a bit too conveniently 'on-hand'. One can't avoid hearaing other people's stories in a small ward like 55, and keeping people in hospital, against their will, until their care plan can be cut is systemic (as is the pysical abuse that I experienced).
I am deeply grieved that people are routinely being denied their civil rights by professionals who know nothing about them, other than a few check-marks in their precious tick-boxes; It leaves our wonderful health service looking very damaged.
