The patient in bed 22: Michael Hunter.

People always say “don’t talk to strangers” but I’ve always thought; what if they have the best advice? My June hospital visit brought about a new friend. On one of my last nights in hospital I was getting ready for bed when Michael walked past my room. Now, I hadn’t really spoken to him while I’d been there, and all I knew about him was that he loved his music, just as much as I did, if not more. Most mornings I’d wake up to Morrison, Dylan or even Clapton, and just having noise other than the regular beeps and blares of hospital machines made the day a little easier. It got me through the tests where I was poked and prodded and needles that left scars that I still bare today.  So from the start, without him knowing it, he’d been helping.  

Anyways, back to the night we spoke. I was getting ready for bed when he walked past and told me not to get to bed too early as I wouldn’t sleep well; he then stepped further into my room to ask how I was doing. Conversation flowed and he began to tell me how he had invented the little metal things at the end of the bed that hold the hand sanitiser and how the coating on all the doors and beds was specially designed to prevent any bacteria from sticking. After we started speaking about music he pulled me through to his room to see his cd collection, and let me tell you, it was endless! He told me how music was his escape, how it helped him, and how it will always be there for you when you need it.

A bit of background information: In each room there is a white board on the opposite wall to the bed, and because I was on the neurology and stroke ward, it was usually used to remind people where they are, and what they have and a routine to follow. And in the heart wrenching cases, it’s used to remind the patients who they are. Mine was changed daily with images my mum had drawn up to give a bit of colour to the white walls.  Michaels had his doctors’ name (who is incidentally Doctor Parratt), the name of his auto-immune infection, his medications, and an exercise resume he needed to do every day. There was also a photo of his daughter tapped to one corner. When he saw me looking at it he told me of his doctor and how good he was. Ironically I was to meet Doctor Parratt that same night. He then went to tell me how Doctor Parratt believed exercise was key to getting better, and as someone who loves to move, I couldn’t agree more. A silence followed and when I looked to him he was staring at the photo of his daughter with tears glistening in his eyes. Not breaking his gaze he started to tell me of the day his daughter graduated university, of the day where he clapped louder than anyone else in the crowd as she finished a chapter of her life. Once he realised that he was tearing up he looked at me and wiped his eyes and said “it’s okay to show emotion, even if you think it makes you weak”. It was a slap in the face for me. I’m someone who would rather breakdown in the privacy of my own room, and feels ashamed when I can’t keep that control. I know it’s not healthy, but we all have our coping mechanisms, mine just happens to be frowned upon by most therapists. With pride in his eyes he told me about how his daughter has helped him through some of his hardest days, how she’s been there for him when he thought he was alone. His parting advice was that it’s okay to ask for help, that it’s okay to admit that you need someone to get you back on your feet.

I was gone by the next evening, and the likely hood of Michael remembering me is at an extreme low, but his words have echoed in my head ever since. Since meeting him I’ve tried to follow his advice, and sure, it’s a lot harder than I originally thought, but maybe one day I won’t be scared to ask for help and show more emotion.