It was two months of pure torture without any respite. The slightest stir, such as a gentle knock against the bed’s railing, triggered intense pain. The usual forms of comforting human contact, such as a hug or kiss on the forehead, were touches of agony.
Every shift to get myself into a comfortable position was a sadistic bargain, and bedsores added to the discomfort. Lifting my ass up a few inches to use the bedpan was another tedious chore (yes gross, but that was the reality).
All I could do for the first few weeks was to focus on fighting the pain, 24 hours a day. Distractions such as conversations or books only exhausted me further. I remember laying wide awake many a night, gazing at my guardian for the evening and waiting for her to wake, just so I could ask for a sip of water.
Every investigation was exhausting as it was violating. Needles and tubes were stuck into and removed from my tiny veins, down my throat, up my ass, through my flesh. My arms were covered with giant bruises and sometimes, blood still had to be drawn through these injuries as there wasn’t any other undamaged vein spaces left.
I have never had so many x-rays done in succession before, the complexity of my organs and skeletal framework distilled to telling shades of black and white.
It took up to 30 minutes every time I had to be shifted into a different position, mindless movements that would have only taken a few seconds on a normal day. My garment would be soaked with sweat from the effort, and I would be screaming from the pain without any awareness of doing so. It was only after the aim was achieved, would I then realise that the entire room had fallen into solemn silence, as strangers gazed at me from the corner of their downcast eyes.