Lord, I thought having a panic attack in a Portakabin was bad enough. Things have been even more exciting since then, with another panic attack taking me to the out-of-hours clinic in Cowley Road; the next day, Bank Holiday Sunday, we went to five chemists and took four hours to get the drugs the doctor there prescribed. Actually, all we could get was a reasonable facsimile thereof, but the pharmacist at Woodstock Road chemist should get a medal for services above and beyond; he went to unheard-of efforts. On Tuesday evening I had massive stomach pains and Judy took me to A&E. I can't tell you much about that, as they gave me morphine, but I have a distant impression of many people running around and being terribly helpful and efficient. So far, so good, but it all went wobbly when I got transferred to the Churchill; the only bed they could find me was on the colorectal ward, and the nurses didn't know what to do with me. They put me on nil by mouth and didn't let me have my drugs. Unsurprisingly, I had another major panic attack the next morning and had to sign myself out without having a drain. In retrospect, a very stupid thing to have done, but, at the time, the only option I could tolerate.
I have a lot of people pulling for me - the gynae-obs Macmillan nurses, the people at the Sobell House Hospice, my own doctor - but sometimes I think that just one person doing the right thing would be preferable. Especially as they will keep changing my medication. "What're you on? Yeah, that's good, but THIS might be better, try that instead!" We're thinking of asking the pharmacy for a frequent flyer discount (yes, I get my drugs free anyway, but it's the principle of the thing). And on Friday we got a phone call to tell me I was in hospital having a drain. I wasn't. I might have been if anyone had told me I should be ...
Good news: current batch of painkillers and tranks are working quite well, which is good, as I'm in bloody agony. I think that the ascites has pushed up into my chest cavity again: my breathing's not too bad, but the pain, front and back, means I can't ever get comfortable, I'm constantly being sick, and I can't eat. Which may be as well, given the circumstances.
I have an appointment with the oncologist on Monday morning, and, I believe, a bed booked for a drain (I'll believe it when I see it) directly after. I expect to be on the ward overnight, which will, again, be entertaining, as I'm supposed to start chemo on Tuesday. Anyway: my brother is coming with us for extra reinforcement - I am a liberated, capable, intelligent women, or I am when I am not stoned out of my mind and in pain all the time, and Judy is a liberated, intelligent woman WITH A FREAKING DOCTORATE, but even so, when we talk we find people looking behind us for the grown-up (gggggrrrrrr, incidentally) - so I hope things will get more bearable soon.
In amongst all this, the ShadowCat was, on Friday evening, seen to have a huge wound on his bum, and had to be snagged when he came in on Saturday morning (no, he is not allowed to be outdoors overnight) and swept off to the vet to be treated.
Did I mention that yesterday was Judy's birthday? Quite possibly the worst birthday ever no?
