hospital

The Blokey

If you were to pick him and shake him he would probably sound like a baby rattle.

I would rather he sounded like a money box, but there you go.

I received a text yesterday lunchtime.  “I’m not going to panic or worry, but I have a really bad pain in my lower leg” (paraphrased) … Being the dutiful wife with no timetable, I rang him back and prodded him into making the decision that only he could make; to go to the Emergency Care Centre at the local hospital.  He was recently diagnosed with Nephrotic Syndrome, and a possible complication of it is DVT.  Due to his being in hospital earlier in the year with both pneumonia and a pulmonary embolism (funnily enough he saw the consultant on Wednesday and was given the all-clear *sigh*) it’s best that we don’t take any chances (even though he’s on medication to thin his blood) …

So, we toddled off to the hospital.  The consultant threw a lot of questions in his direction, the nurse took three vials of blood (he’s given so much blood over the last twelve months it’s a wonder he has any left), and we were asked to wait in the waiting room for the results.  Those pesky lab folk weren’t on the ball and we had to sit and wait for three hours.  Tsk.

It wasn’t too bad.  I got to do a lot of people watching, which I love.  It wasn’t like ER or Casualty though; there was very little drama or excitement.  The Blokey admitted that in the past he’s kept things from me, bad things.  You worry too much.  I don’t want you to worry, he said.  It doesn’t matter.  I worry too much anyway.  But I love him for thinking that by not telling me things he’s making my worry issues less!  He’s a banana.

Today The Blokey probably sounds like a louder baby rattle.

He’s been prescribed more bloody tablets.  Thankfully, these ones are only a week long course of antibiotics and the doctor is quite sure that he doesn’t have a DVT.  No, instead he has an infection which has something to do with those nasty flesh-eating bacteria that tend to chomp on people.  Yikes!  And a look on the Internet makes me wonder if this will be something he’s likely to get again.  Double Yikes!  But I shouldn’t believe everything I read online …

I will spend the rest of my married days (which could quite easily be the rest of my life) worrying about my husband.  I don’t mind this.  I do mind watching him suffer, and I do feel his emotional pain as he keeps getting smacked down just as he feels he’s making progress.  It’s horrid.

Of course, there is a positive to all this.  The Blokey gets free prescriptions because of another medical issue he has … he’s the chap in front of you at the pharmacy who just has to wave an exemption card around whilst you have to pay £7.10 per prescription.  Sorry about that. 

please God thank you that The Blokey didn’t have to stay in the hospital again xxx Elsabeth

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My Exciting Bank Holiday Weekend

The most exciting thing that happened to me this Bank Holiday weekend was seeing some police officers taking a man to the ground and handcuffing him.  This was exciting because a) I could see it from my kitchen window, b) nothing ever usually happens round here because it’s a nice area, and c) it was amusing that the police actually had to do something to earn their wages.

Of course, I’m lying.  That wasn’t the most exciting thing to happen this weekend.  Spending all of Bank Holiday Monday in the local hospital was far more of a thrilling occasion. 

I may have mentioned that The Blokey has been ill recently.  I probably just mentioned it in passing, glossing over it.  By not talking about it too much I can pretend it isn’t happening.  Besides, in the Grand Scheme of things it wasn’t really worth elaborating on – It would become a bit boring if I told my Dear Readers all the ins and outs of three month appointments at two different hospitals, where they take blood and urine samples, explain nothing and send him away again.  The two things we have known is that a) he has an under-active thyroid and b) his kidley’s [that’s our word, bless] are buggered, a bit.  Any other illnesses that he has to take tablets for are secondary to these two ongoing issues. 

This past week he’s suffered from really really really bad constipation [sorry]. 

[aside: the i’m really ill department, the hospital, yesterday –
doogie howser: why are you on iron tablets?
the blokey: because I’m anaemic.
doogie howser: who told you that?
the blokey: my doctor.
doogie howser: why are you anaemic?
the blokey: i don’t know!]

The constipation cured itself [with the help of sachets of powder from the doctor] and was probably caused by either the under-active thyroid, or the iron tablets [the consultants at the hospital are bemused by the iron tablets], but at the same time he was developing the nasty blockage he was also developing breathing problems.  When the constipation waved bu-bye, the shallow and laboured breathing stayed firmly in place.  He couldn’t lie down [he’s been sleeping (sat up) on the settee for a week] and even moving a millimetre was making him gasp and pant.  You can imagine the trouble he had getting upstairs to our only loo.  And this is the chap who now goes to the gym regularly and is fitter than he looks.

On Saturday I asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital.  His mother didn’t help by telling him there was something drastically wrong.  On Sunday I asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital.  On Monday morning we actually went to the hospital. 

[aside: the car, the road, yesterday –
the blokey: i feel such a fraud, they’re going to take one look at me and tell me off for wasting their time!
katiefinger: there, there.]

Needless to say, they didn’t send him home.  In fact the out-of-hours GP exclaimed, You should be in hospital! – this resulted in panic-stricken looks from The Blokey, and my heart nearly gave up on me.  I’d spent about two hours sleeping the previous night after tying myself up in knots – yes, I’d typed his symptoms into Google and the worst possible scenarios were now running through my head.  I must remember not to do that.

Anyway, it isn’t his heart.  And it isn’t lung disease.  Phew.  He actually has pneumonia.  Pneumonia!  He [apparently] only has to stay in hospital because he needs oxygen.  Once he can breathe fully by himself he should be able to come home.  Yay!  The consultant was even able to tell us what he thinks is wrong with the kidley’s and was able to tell us that it’s fully treatable [although, as with the under-active thyroid, I suspect it will be something that needs lifelong treatment].  I think that The Blokey could soon be peeing for England …

That was my exciting weekend.  It also involved tears on the phone to my mum [who drove up from Gip to be with us], being calm on the phone to my MiL, and a migraine due to fatigue and lack of food/water. 

I expect yours was drab and dull in comparison?

please God bless this long post [edit d’oh!: and the blokey, obviously] xxx Elsabeth

A Hospital is no place to be sick.

I quite like hospitals.  I think this might make me a bit of a freak. 

I stayed in hospital once.  I was six years old and I’d fallen off my bike whilst whizzing around the corner.  Banged my head, I did.  They thought I’d fractured my skull, but it turned out I hadn’t [although I like to think that I did and would like to see the x-rays to prove it], and I was left with nothing but a big black eye and a bruised six year old ego.  Oh, and a Mr Topsy-Turvy mug, and painful memories of crying for my mummy – who I knew was outside the ward but who couldn’t come and see me because daddy and his new friend [who he now lived with] were visiting me.

Apart from that my hospital visits have been mainly confined to a) casualty, for various reasons including a broken wrist, a fractured elbow, another fractured elbow that never got seen to medically because I couldn’t be arsed to hang around for four hours and some overdoses [not mine], b) visiting Mumsy and nana, oh and a friend who was a bit of a nutter and c) to annoy Mumsy at work, for she worked/s in a hospital but not as a nurse. 

But I digress.  I quite like hospitals.  They’re very clean, squeakily so in fact.  And they’re very big.  If you go at the right time you can have a very long squeakily clean corridor all to yourself and if the fancy took you it would be quite a novelty to run screaming down it.  There are calm pictures on the walls in hospitals, usually green and blue, which are often quite nice and make you think nice thoughts.

And there’s the alcohol hand rub stuff lotion-y thing at every corner and the end of every bed, for heaven forbid! you bring germs into the hospital.  I love that stuff.  I’ll quite happily spend all day rubbing that into my hands.

You can also get lost in hospitals.  And we did nearly, yesterday. 

My Father-in-Law did a very silly thing.  He climbed on a chair and then fell off it.  Now he has some bleeding on/in [?] his brain and we’ve just heard that it seems to be stable [no swelling] so they won’t need to operate.  The Blokey feels guilty because we have my Father-in-Law’s ladder, and if we’d given it back to him ages ago then he wouldn’t have been standing on the chair.  But the doctors don’t know whether the fall and subsequent knock on his head caused the bleed or whether the bleed was already there and it caused him to faint. 

He seemed ok yesterday [it happened on Friday but they sent him home from casualty on Friday afternoon and then he got really sick on Saturday so he went back in and they actually did a CT scan, and the doctor said she wished they’d done it on Friday, bloody silly beggars]; very very sleepy, and his head was obviously causing him pain – but he was a little like the Father-in-Law that I know and love, so he’ll be fine.  Hopefully he’ll be home asap.

If you’re so inclined please send get well vibes in his direction.  Ta.

In good news I won some money on the Grand National on Saturday. It was extremely exciting – but I shan’t get addicted.  Go me!

please God bless those poor students in Virginia, and their families xxx Elsabeth

[and a message for azn_qt1: i can’t get on your site to tell you that i was joking – i know that there can’t be that many women in the world with no nipples … yikes]