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tyruee.com
I spent three months in a care home. At 69, I was convinced I would end my life in Room 14. I spent three full months in a care home on the outskirts of Leeds. I was in Room 14 on the second floor: a medical bed, a small bedside table and a wardrobe large enough to hold every piece of clothing I had brought with me. At 69, I was convinced that was it. That I was going to die there and that, within a matter of months, I would become completely dependent on other people and confined to a wheelchair. My name is Margaret Wilson, and I’m from Leeds. For thirty-two years, I worked as an NHS nurse in Leeds. Injections, drips, night shifts, patients who needed lifting, washing, reassuring and, sometimes, accompanying through the final moments of their lives. All those years, I kept telling myself that once I retired, I would finally be able to slow down. I imagined walking with my grandchildren, going into town on a Saturday morning, cooking Sunday lunch for the whole family and finally having time with my husband. Life had other plans. My knees had already started hurting before I retired. With every step, I could hear and feel them grinding and cracking. After spending my entire working life in healthcare, I knew perfectly well what it could mean. Osteoarthritis. The cartilage gradually wearing away. But I never seemed to have time to look after myself. There was always another patient first, another shift to finish, someone else who needed care more than I did. How stupid I had been. A few months after I retired, both knees became so badly swollen that I could no longer get some of my shoes on. Around the house, I moved slowly, holding on to furniture because I was frightened of falling. Every step felt as though something sharp was being driven straight into my knees. In the mornings, my legs could be so stiff that I struggled even to bend them enough to get out of bed. Then things became worse. Large dark patches started appearing on my legs, from my knees do
