Show / Hide


Monday, 22 April 2013

9875: Shy-Drager Syndrome

She looked at me in the eyes as I introduced myself. She made an attempt to smile, or at least that's what I thought.

"We'll need to do a blood test today," I mentioned casually, as I have done hundreds of times before.

"Just a small scratch." She looked away, just as her relatives drop by to visit her in hospital. Great. I never liked being watched inflicting pain.

I walked around the bed to her other arm, the one which did not have a bag of salt water attached to it. As I grabbed her arm to move it into position, she let out a whimper which took me by surprise. Half the day I have been on the ward, she has not made a sound.

"Her arms are sore if you try to move them," her relative said helpfully with a smile, standing over the other side of the bed. If she could shoot daggers out of her eyes I'll be minced up already.

You see, the contractures were so severe she is permanently in a curled up position. She is at the terminal stage of the disease, trapped in her own body. I try not to imagine how she must be feeling.

"I'm so sorry," I blurted repeatedly as I try not to cause any more distress. Then as the needle goes in, she let out another whimper with tears forming in her eyes.

I've not done many things worth me mulling over, but honestly, I've never felt so bad in this life.