Post 21: Good Juju
Vital statistics:
Temp: perfect
BP: 108/76/104 (AFib)
Weight: I’ve a wasplike belly 
Hair: Looking good 
Anything else? Get it together, Mr U.
I’ve dealt with the first job of the day satisfactorily — my belly has another enoxaparin needle mark alongside the purple and yellow bruises; waspy.
I used to be squeamish about blood or any damage to my body. Feeling faint was just how it was with me.
My Dad was a first-aider at his workplace and used to go to Bletchley Park for competitions and training — yes, the home of the Code-breakers, long before it was a museum.
His calmness in the face of injury was amazing — nothing flustered Dad.
So, although he taught me his ways and I had the same calmness when dealing with someone else’s minor medical emergency, I used to cringe if I encountered my own blood.
Over the years, I’ve had to face up to the fact that my fears of pain were just that — fears — so I’ve educated myself to be as good at dealing with my blood as anyone else’s.
It seems my youngest is also taking after my Dad, as he’s now chief first-aider at his own workplace.
Going back further into the twilight zone — my dad’s dad was called up for the First World War, and, as he didn’t want to kill anyone, he was pleased to be assigned to the RAMC (Royal Army Medical Corps). Same as Dad during his National Service.
So now we’ve got four generations of first-aiders in our family history.
I never met my granddad — he’d died aged 52, about fifteen years before I was born, sadly.
The shrapnel injuries he’d acquired in France in 1914 saw him removed from the theatre of war and placed on a hospital ship — HMHS Delta — which moved the injured around the world. Pick-ups in South Africa and India mostly, then brought them home.
But while in India, he caught malaria in Deolali — the origin of the slang “going Doolally.”
Grandad had continuous check-ups and treatment until he died — and with him, so many stories were lost, as is so often the case.
Whoah — where did that come from?
That was an unexpected thread of memories, but a lovely distraction for me.
I don’t find it easy to be constantly working out my future plans.
I do, however, need to get my act together for tomorrow’s oncology check-up — but with everything that happened over the weekend, I’m guessing this won’t be as straightforward as it should’ve been.
The toy-throwing-out-of-my-pram feelings that overtook me yesterday — when I was feeling increasingly angry and sorry for myself — have now matured into the calmer, more thoughtful phase I’m in today.
I’m not apologetic about the horrid place where I was, because it widened my view of what choices I have.
Some of them extreme and unconventional, but with my medical options currently limited to two chemotherapies, opening up Pandora’s box was good juju.
There is one thing I did while in that highly emotional state that I’m now back-pedalling on.
I wrote an email to my GP (via a cancer care coordinator), focusing on the weekend’s drama and making my lungs and heart a priority concern — while also complaining about the multi-disciplinary group discussions for my hospital cancer care failing to get me onto blood thinners before chemo.
Oops.
Did I overstep? Probably.
Will it change anything? No.
Do I still feel the same about that particular gripe? Yes.
I need a shower and a little walk to get myself grounded about what happens next.
I need more time with My Darling — to hold her warm hands and pass some time thinking about her.
I’ve dwelt within me too much; I need to reset my horizon and be a husband, not a patient, for a while.
———————
I’m sitting in the shade of the half-round-topped Flamingo willow tree in the back garden, eating the tasty lunch My Darling made for me.
I’m being watched and waited on very carefully — and the effort isn’t lost on me.
I couldn’t be in better hands, even if some of the restrictions she’s put on me seem a bit over-the-top.
For example, I’m not allowed to walk up or down the stairs for two weeks while this “nothing strenuous” condition — advised by the heart consultant as a condition of my release from prison (I mean hospital) — is in force.
You’re probably now wondering where I’m sleeping.
No, I’m not in the shed or the garage — I am in our matrimonial bed upstairs.
How do I get up there, I hear you ask?
Well, it’s not on the shoulder of My Darling — she’s 5’1½” and I’m 6 foot, so there’s no chance of that.
No, it’s a stairlift.
As I said before — I’m a lucky guy.
We originally bought it for my Mum while she stayed with us, and after she passed away (nearly three years ago), my wife and I decided to keep it — just in case.
Well, it’s now perfect for me — even though I dread using it because it makes me feel like a geriatric.
And we all know what I think about that… Harrumph!
After I finished all the healthy grub for lunch, Mr Vicious bounded out from under the conservatory chairs and rolled around on the patio in front of me, trying to attract a tummy rub after brushing past my leg on the way.
He gave me one of those “touch me and you’re dead” stares — so I shot him with my phone camera and kept away.
(See photo.)
Today has been a great day — my mind is in gear and there’s no sign of yesterday’s anger and anxieties.
My Darling is more relaxed, but until I get some advice and follow-up on the heart and lungs, she’s still on high alert.
So seeing her lying across that blue corner sofa with her head on my lap, fast asleep — that’s what I call a result.
She’s been worrying for both of us and needs to chill.
She’s earned this siesta.
In another twist in the plot of Mr U’s Freestyle Treatment Plan, I’ve decided to contact the online Patient Advice and Liaison Service (PALS) at my hospital trust to formally complainabout the anticoagulants being missing from my pre-chemo prescribed meds. This was the advice I received in reply to that rash email yesterday I sent to the cancer care coordinator at my GP’s.
It might sound like a waste of time — and I’m ready for that — but I feel the need to do something.
Draw a line.
Fight my corner.
Stand up.
All I’ll say about the complain is that it’s a long story.
But my mind is now calm after making this stand.
I am terribly affected by the PE last Friday — and by the unknown (as yet) consequential medical issues that will stay with me, possibly forever.
I hope I get to speak with the relevant experts about the current state of my heart — and how long it might take the clots to officially disappear (if that’s even possible).
I live in hope.
My first chemo review appointment is tomorrow with the consultant’s staff as I already mentioned.
I’ll primarily listen to what they have to say about what’s going to happen next — which I’m keen to hear.
I’ll eventually mention that I’d like a second opinion on my treatment, simply to boost my own failing confidence in the system — but I believe it’s a straightforward question I’m allowed to ask.
I doubt there’s any other plan for me anyway. But if you don’t ask you don’t get.
I need space and time to digest what’s happened and to only resume treatment once I’ve done a bit more digging and my confidence grows back.
I’m off the bus.
Stopped the tricycle.
Not sure there’s a plan.
But I’m standing up for myself — and for My Darling.
Let’s see what tomorrow brings.
