The nurse comes round to do our meds very early in the morning then I drift back off to sleep. I’m woken to an overpowering smell of sick and shit. She comes back round to do blood pressure. “Are you ok?” she asks. “Nurse..” I mutter “I feel like I’ve woken up with a hyper increased sense of smell…could that be a side effect from all the drugs?” “Oh no that is Brenda. She has had accident” it is explained. The elderly lady in the bed opposite me can’t stop being sick and shitting herself. They overcompensate by spraying sweetened air freshener on the ward as you can’t open the windows more than 3cm in case people jump out (see previous story). The toxic aroma of sick, shit and sweetened air freshener is overwhelming and I find myself sitting up trying not to wretch into my own sick bowl. I’m just out of open surgery and it’s really important I don’t cough or vomit as it can create a hernia. I create my own shell from the outer world by hiding under my bedsheet and wrapping it around like a mummy. I am cocooned in my bed sheet, but then fear of lack of oxygen brings me back out. The stench never really leaves the ward for the rest of the week but the elderly lady is moved to her own room that evening. I go over to say goodbye and she looks up at me wide eyed and says slowly “Am I going to be ok?” It hits me how the elderly can transform into childlike innocence towards the end of their life, like it all goes round full circle. I reassure her the best I can with the unqualified opinion of someone sleeping opposite her on the ward, that a segregated room will be better for her as she will get more care and attention. It also reaffirms to me not for the first time how the universality of suffering transcends all age, class and race. We’re all the same, we all suffer in the same way. We’re all just scared that we’re not going to be ok. We all feel the same thing.