Cutoffs

THE ICU experience lingers, always on my mind, awake and asleep. Unsurprising I imagine, but it is curious to have so much time blotted out, when so much was happening to me without any level of awareness whatsoever. Maybe it will mosey around in my head forever.

The latest knot I am unpicking is that my clothes were cut off me. Imagine coma-ing my way through that, imagine? I thought that only happened in telly dramas. Thankfully I had felt warm that evening and had taken off my very old cosy (aka manky) black cashmere hoodie which remained on the sofa until I got home…and I was, of course, wearing clean knickers, because I listened to my mum’s advice about clean knickers and never knowing what may happen! Turns out you do indeed never know what may happen but I also may never know where those particular knickers have gone.

I can’t believe that after a lifetime of watching and re-watching ER  with its constant  reprise of  “call the crash team…chest drain…central line…Chem 7” that I missed my own surprise party. I was never sure, back in the day, who was being instructed to follow these oblique commands, but followed they were. I am convinced that us Brits are less voluble (and I do always watch 24 Hours in A&E as vicarious learning) but I don’t think I have ever “witnessed” clothes being cut off.

It may be farewell lovely dress, but the sofa has no forensic evidence of what it witnessed…and oh yeah..I’m alive!