Post 208: What happens tomorrow?
The overriding concern on our minds is the oncology report tomorrow.
I get up early — well, early for me — and after showering carefully, I carefully get in the car and go to the GP surgery. Everything is carefully these days. I’m cheesed off about it, and there’s no stopping my decline.
I press the screen and book myself into the surgery’s system, then sit down in an armed chair with risers on each of the four feet — perfect for people like me. Useless. Ha ha.
I’m five minutes early, but I’ll read a bit on my mobile Kindle. It’s about time I finished this book. It’s been a while since I started it, and I don’t know why I haven’t got into it more.
I read a chapter and the time rolls on.
Some people who arrived after me have come and gone, and I’m wondering how long is long enough before asking the lovely receptionist to check what’s occurring. I question whether I’ve got the right day, but I know my name came up on the digital screen.
I’ll wait a little longer.
It’s now thirty minutes late — I really should ask at the counter. It’s only three strides to the window, and I’m there, ready to get the low-down… but I wait a little more.
It’s forty minutes gone when a guy I’ve never seen before pokes his head around the corner and calls my name.
He says sorry as I’m guided to a seat — which is when I find out he’s taken on the appointments for the lady who I should have had but hasn’t arrived yet — and asks me how can he help.
Oh bugger, he’s not got a clue why I’m here, so I explain about the oedema I think I have. He does the poking about and blood-pressure check, and before long takes bloods as well. The empty left arm filled up today, so that’s good.
He starts to learn about my comorbidities and the blood runs out of his face; his tone changes to sympathetic as he confers with the screen. I tell him I’m complicated — he agrees.
I leave him with orders to book an ECG at reception on the way out and to ask the oncologist tomorrow if there’s any connection between oedema and chemotherapy, which I’m very willing to do.
Back home, I stay in the chair watching TV with Mr Vicious for the rest of the day.
My Darling gets up and heads out mid-afternoon for more pills for me and a few bits she needs. She looks as worried as I feel. She’s been suffering with migraines and headaches lately, and I’m worried about her but say nothing. Let’s get tomorrow over with. Tomorrow is the big meeting — and after it, we can all relax, with any luck.
Our youngest is coming with us to the powwow tomorrow, and that’s a really good thing for both of us.
Back from the shops, and after Googling oedema, the very best thing is to wear compression socks — or stockings, as my Darling now prefers to call them.
It wasn’t easy to get the buggers on, but we prevailed with great teamwork and a bit of luck. They’re bluey-green, and with my shorts on I look ridiculous. OMG! I very much doubt I’m allowed to walk out in public with shorts ever again. So it’s longs from now on — maybe some cool flares, like I’m back in the ’70s. At least they’ll go over the socks. Ha-ha.
Later I got a text from the GP surgery saying the haemoglobin at 95 is still low, and to inform the oncologist for her opinion. Just another thing to add to the growing list for tomorrow’s meeting.
Before I wrap this up, I should mention the big spiny plant in the back garden that has bloomed for the first time ever this year. It’s quite a big bloom, and I wonder if it will ever flower again. It might be one of those daft plants that only flowers every ten years — I hope not.
I head to bed after the tug-of-war that is getting off the stockings. It’s not much easier than getting them on. We prevail after a while, and I head up — but remember to print out the list on the computer. Brill.
It’s now a long list, and we hope to get through it all.
Brill.
One sleep to go…
