"AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!" I said.
Well, they did tell me to let them know if it hurt.
But I anticipate myself. Come, step into my time machine, and let us travel back to last Thursday morning ...
*wibbly-wobbly spacey special effects*
It is Thursday, and for the past few days (weeks?) my breathing has been becoming increasingly more and more laboured. This time last week, I could - just - manage the ten-minute walk to my GP's surgery. Today I can't walk up the stairs without effort, and my chest feels caught in a vise. My next appointment at the pleural clinic is not until 18 October, and at this rate I'll be dead by then. Something Must Be Done.
(At this point, the audience is yelling "Go to A&E, you idiot!" But I am not very good at this being ill malarkey, and don't know the proper protocol.)
Judy phones the pleural clinic. The secretary promises to get a doctor to phone us. We wait ...
Okay. A&E it is, I don't see we have any other choice. I pack a go bag in case they want to keep me again, Judy loads me into the car, and off we traipse to the JR.
A&E is not quite where we thought it was. The walk does me no good whatsoever. We finally find the right place, I collapse into a chair, and Judy goes to do battle with the receptionist ...
Who is nice as pie, totally helpful, rushes me straight through (Judy says we got glares from the people waiting), and even finds me a wheelchair. I like that lady.
I like the A&E staff, too, who are fast and efficient, don't ask stupid questions, but do give me oxygen. Bliss! You have no idea how much you miss breathing until you can't.
All the usual tests, the doctor bangs all over my chest and back - a cowardly thing, I call it - and makes me say "99" until I am dying for an ice-cream, an X-ray and then, somehow, the pleural clinic at the Churchill manages to liaise and says they can operate on me this afternoon, if we get there quick.
We get there quick.
More oxygen, some waiting, then lovely Dr Naj appears.
"Did they tell you your X-ray results?" he said, and I said I assumed that the pleural effusion had got worse.
Well, yes and no. The original effusion, on my right lung, is still there, doing nothing much. But. There is now two and a half litres of fluid on my left lung and, Dr Naj says, they had better do something about that.
I say that I think that would be a good idea, and off to surgery we go.
"Nice tattoo," says the nurse.
"This is where I came in," I think, still visualising two and a half litres in terms of milk bottles and trying to figure out how on earth they fit.
We'll draw a veil over the actual procedure, as it was abominably painful. There were two screams and a faint. The scream at the start of this post records the moment they tried to drain off the last few millilitres. That was very hurty indeed.
So, one more X-ray - inclusive of one more almost-faint when I had to stand up for it - and Dr Naj decides I'm fit to go home. Judy packs me back into the car, drives me home, puts me to bed, and here I have been more or less ever since.
I can still barely breathe and can't exert myself at all, and my innards are all bruised and sore - especially my poor left lung, which is slowly uncurling and going "WTF?!" - but I do think I feel a bit better. And so I should hope, after all that.
Tomorrow I have two appointments at the oncology department, one with the clinic and one with the consultant. We presume this is to discuss chemo. I don't think I can start chemo until my breathing's sorted out. I anticipate a battle. Stay tuned!
Hero of the hour, btw - other than Dr Naj - is Judy, who was, once again, absolutely bloody brilliant all day long, as she has been throughout this whole nightmare. By a lucky coincidence, the GC was staying over Thursday night - so at least she had a good end to her day.
Me, I just slept. Sometimes it's the only way to go.
