I did not have to do very much to get where I am now: only lift my feet, wearing shoes for the first time in over a week, in an alternating forward-oriented sequence to reach the smart grey Renault ambulance waiting at the rear entrance of the hospital. Did not even have to tell the driver our address as he keyed it into the satnav from his printout. The journey door to door took less than an hour and here I am, having swapped hospital bed for squashily familiar family sofa and bleeps and buzzers for the sound of our cat asking for food.
Before release there were a number of formalities. The PICC line was removed without any fuss in the time it takes to exhale a deep breath; an American-size grocery bag of drugs was handed over; I was handed a medical certificate freeing me from work for the next few months (as the Australian nurse said this morning, "it's pretty drastic, what we've done to yez").
I arrived home to a letter advising me of my first follow-up appointment, on 6 September. Once more an outpatient.
Before release there were a number of formalities. The PICC line was removed without any fuss in the time it takes to exhale a deep breath; an American-size grocery bag of drugs was handed over; I was handed a medical certificate freeing me from work for the next few months (as the Australian nurse said this morning, "it's pretty drastic, what we've done to yez").
I arrived home to a letter advising me of my first follow-up appointment, on 6 September. Once more an outpatient.
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