WHEN LIFE IS AT ITS WORST

WHEN LIFE IS AT ITS WORST

I would like somewhere calm and safe and silent mainly. I would like to sit in comfort with soft lighting with wood and fabric around me. Maybe a bookshelf filled with books that I could try to read or if I was not able to concentrate with writing, where I could look inside them at; photographs and paintings; things like that. I would like a socket for my lap top and some way of sitting there to write and find some of my feelings in my writing.

When I walked in with a frantic heart I would like a welcome and I would like to know what was happening to me and where things were and whether there were any rules I would need to abide by.

I would like areas of brightness and beauty with views over water and amongst trees. I would like to walk in these spaces and have benches to sit on where I can smell the scent of the air and the ground, of flowers and the sap of the trees. I would like to hear the murmur of water and the sound of leaves rustling. I would like to hear the birds singing and the wind in the grass.

Perhaps if I walked a small distance, I would find vegetable gardens I could help with or animals I could look after or sit with, to think and contemplate different possibilities.

I would like a space where I could sleep in safety and comfort and I would like to know the room felt soft and that I could have visitors I could speak to in private and that I could listen to music or if I was feeling especially energetic, could access the internet.

And of course the chance when I can manage it, to talk and mix in company with people. I would like a room I felt safe in, where I could talk to my helpers and if necessary, wail and feel no shame for that. I would like spaces we can mix and gather and chatter when that is a possibility for us and for friendships to be encouraged; yes friendships and arts and crafts and maybe places where we could cook fresh food after we get bored of the predictability of hospital fare.

And of course a kitchen open all day with good coffee and tea that you can actually enjoy drinking and the possibility of making hot buttered toast, ideally on fresh white bread!!

When life is especially difficult and I have limits to where I can venture I would like variety in where I can sit and I would like somewhere to feel fresh air and grass and soil.

There would need to be things to do for the same reason, and though I would like arty things there should also be opportunities for those who like football or cars or fashion.

I would be asked what I wanted to do, and asked my opinions of where I am, the staff, our treatment, and I would know my answers would be taken seriously. Staff would know I also have talents and skills and hobbies and jobs and interests and if I wanted to I would be encouraged to share them and use them to improve this place and the things that happen here.

Maybe there would be pictures on the walls and a bookcase for those of us who get energised enough, to look at its folders which tell us of our rights and the facilities here and in the area around us. Perhaps they would also guide me to information and websites about my condition and to self help and people who have been through this already and know what it is like to beg not to live any longer. But although I would know this was there I would feel no pressure to look at it. Instead I might prefer to sit in comfort and look at the bunch of flowers someone left behind for the staff when they left.

As in days long gone I would like this place to be on the arts circuit so that in some large central space there are bands and plays that me and my friends and family from outside can attend when they are on tour and then the babble of thoughts I try to avoid might be replaced by music I want to listen to or dance to.

And maybe there would be a café that is of the sort of quality that you would want to spend hours mulling over the world in with your friends. Perhaps the outside world would have offices and help on offer that would come to me on the ward or which I could wander down the corridor to when I are feeling more like myself and these would be exciting places to venture into; bright and smelling nice, with energy and a tiny hint of joy in the people who worked in them. There could be spaces to get lost in something different; music, paint, worship, peace and contemplation.

It would be the sort of place where I could genuinely say I am delighted to be staying there and it would not have staff or managers who worry that because they provide a high quality service that I will inevitably abuse the help they offer. No one will think that maybe if it was less attractive I would want to spend less time there and that that would be a good thing.

It would not have lino. It would not feel like a hospital. It would not be too hot. It would not be too clean. It would not feel sterile or clinical. It would not have plastic sheets on the beds so you wake up through the night covered in sweat. It would not have plastic chairs or white walls. It would not have tattered health promotion posters on tired notice boards. It would not have stark concrete courtyards for those of us not allowed off the ward. It would not be hemmed in with houses and traffic and pollution. It would have staff who loved working there and loved helping us even when our distress makes us hugely difficult to stay patient with.

The doors to wards would only be locked if absolutely necessary in order to save life. There would not be walls so thin that you can hear the distress of everyone when they can no longer cope another moment. There would not be a single telly for all of us whose programs were chosen by the most assertive.

We would feel valued and protected and we would have things to do and feel that something was happening that would ultimately make our lives better. We would want to talk to our helpers and they would not hide behind uniforms which help them to say that they were different to us. We would be listened to and what we said would be acted on if possible. We would not fear being sent home before we were ready or kept in for longer than we needed. We would not worry that we would be returning to all the things that meant we ended up in the state we had got into in the first place.

And those of us angry beyond measure that we were there at all, this would be acknowledged; the trauma it has caused us validated and acted on, work done to make it less likely to happen again.

Why does this small brief musing about small basics of what might help me when my life is right in the balance; where death is a daily possibility, when I live right in the middle of darkness and desperately need some hope in a future sound so incredibly naïve and impossible?

Our reality should not be so very, very, far from this slight picture of a daydream of what would help.

(Photo Geilstone Gardens October 2022)