There’s a lot you learn from being confined to a cold, steel hospital bed. For one thing, you learn to appreciate your comfortable bed at home, and the loves of your life that you share it with
Why do we only realise the value of something or someone once we’re faced with the prospect of losing it or them? Generation after generation of human beings are confronted by this realisation, yet we continue to make the same mistakes.
A serious heart issue a few years back had me in hospital for a month. To say I was terrified doesn’t come close to the feeling you have when you are faced with your own mortality up close and personal. It was a long and scary road to my fantastic cardiologist, but when our paths crossed, he immediately set about fixing my heart.
It was in my hospital bed that I learnt one of the most lasting life lessons. I used to hate my beds, even though I love sleeping. I shared a bed with my single mom until she married when I was two, when I got my own room and bed. Then at age five, my sister was born and I had to share my bed and room with her.
Fast forward a few years and a brother and another sister joined me in that room, effectively dooming me to forever sharing a bed. A few cousins and aunts also drifted through at various stages of homelessness.
When I finally made it out of the house at 18, the highlight was having my own room and bed in my uncle’s house (my father would not agree to me being on Res, but my uncle lived close to the University).
Being single means you sleep on lumpy hand-me-down mattresses, and used futons are about all you can afford. My first real decent bed was my holy matrimonial bed. But once again, I was not alone in that bed. Not that I was complaining, but let’s just say on boys’ weekends away and business trips, I relished every second of finally being alone in a bed again.
My dear husband will tell you that on most nights I slept like I was alone in the bed anyway and he found himself on a sliver of bed.
On nights that I had the bed to myself, I would deck my bed in shades of exquisite white linen and make my bed look like a marshmallow cloud. I had a year of these indulgently exquisite moments before my son was born. Then we were three-in-a-bed.
I was catapulted right back to my crowded childhood bed. I had smelly nappies, whining, bed-wetting and lots of crying. It was then that I gave up on ever loving a bed again. I packed away all the exquisite bedding and mourned the fact that out of all my 33 years on earth, my years of having a good bed all to myself will always remain sub 10.
When I was circling the drain a year later and faced with the possibility of never going home to my bed again and having a cold steel hospital bed instead, I learnt that nothing else matters other than my health and the people I love.
Those icky bodies in bed with me made me who I am. They made me a sister, a cousin, a niece, a wife, a mother. They were my people. They were my blood, and it’s not as if I could ever claim to be the best bedmate either.
And instead of hating having to share my bed like I did in my childhood. I wanted to have huge bed parties. I wanted to smash through my bedroom wall and put three super king beds next to each other and have all my family over for endless sleepovers.
I wanted my whiney sisters, my smelly brother, my baby with his yucky nappies, my snoring husband and yes, even my judgey aunties. I needed to cuddle with all of them. With the brightest, jolliest bedding ever and no stressing about the white linen getting dirty.
I needed more time with my people, I needed to live and enjoy life. The next day was not guaranteed. A better bed was not guaranteed. I had to make this life and this bed count.
It is, of course, human to forget promises made on a hospital bed. But 10 years later, I am deeply in love with my bed and even though it’s not quite the marshmallow cloud of my dreams, it’s pretty fantastic and it makes me rush home on most days, as it means I get to cuddle with some of my favourite people, in the bed that I have learned to love.
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