Post 217: Chats in Two Places and My Cardi Unravels.
With one eye on the Baz-Ball capers down under, I started the day somewhere between 8 and 8:30 — hopefully.
But as I looked out the kitchen window to the front (with Mr Vicious already ringing for attention in the back), I saw the car opposite was covered in frost. Damn it, I muttered. That’s going to slow me down.
I dashed out the back patio door and in flew a hungry cat, exactly on schedule. I trapped him in the kitchen and he stood there wiping the glass, dish-sized eyes staring at me as if I’d sentenced him to the feline version of solitary confinement.
I ran around the garage like a demented thief trying to find a scraper and the de-icer I knew I owned. Time marched on. I gave up.
Feline food was thrown in the blue plastic bowl, then I slid the patio door open — and a browny-black blur shot past me with a grumbly growl. Places swapped.
I grabbed my coat and keys and headed for the frosty car. Why didn’t I get up earlier? I haven’t got time for this.
A quick hop into town for the GP appointment I was now almost certainly late for — and I hated being late.
My “run” to the car was more like a 90-year-old smoker shuffling for the bus, but in my head I was sprinting. I slid my Tesco club card out of my wallet again — yesterday’s hero — jumped in, and got the engine started.
While the cat warmed up indoors, I froze outside and promised myself (and any listening gods) that I’d buy a scraper and de-icer as soon as I could — for my and my Darlings sanity if not the cat’s.
Once there was enough clear glass to see through, I was off.
Up the town I went, past fellow early risers clutching their own Tesco cards — devilishly useful things, both for discounts and frost removal.
I parked far away from the 4x4 Tonka toys the local ladies use for two bags of shopping and a bottle of wine (or two). Checked the time: “5 and 20 past 8” — a mouthful, but accurate.
I rushed in through the GP’s doors and did the backwards tap with a frozen index finger onto the digital screen we now call the receptionist, and hey presto, Mr U was checked into the surgery, and on time. Just.
A few minutes’ wait, then a young trainee peeked around the door and called me in. I followed her nervous walk — familiar territory.
Elastic band on my arm, and then the boss appeared, swooping in just in time to correct not the trainee’s action, but her omission: the ritual name, DoB, and first-line of Mr-U-Towers check.
It could’ve been worse.
The second arm had better blood flow and the test was done. Then came the choice: sit or lie down for the 3-monthly Zoladex harpoon. On another day, I might’ve made an inappropriate joke, but today I was cheerful. Two ladies fussing over me and two mates to catch up with later.
The boss handled the harpoon, the trainee went silent as the protective sheath came off the huge needle, and in a trice the sticky plaster was on. I stood up carefully, tucked myself in, and steadied against a wave of giddiness — last night’s 03:30 AFib episode still rattling my heart like a misfiring engine.
Bang, tidy, bang, bang, tidy tidy bang.
Annoying, but not dangerous — unless paired with other symptoms, which they weren’t.
Gingerly, I left the ladies to their next victim.
Next stop: the pharmacy. The usual disappointment — Monday’s prescription still mysteriously “not ready” — though they did give me a surprise 30ml slow-release capsule I didn’t know I needed.
Driving licence shown, little white bag collected, and off I went to the superstore.
De-icer and scraper acquired.
Time to go home.
Job blood-well done, Mr U.
My Darling was just getting ready for her usual Friday café crew. Normally she’d still be in bed, but I needed the car to gallivant to the frozen north of the county to see my ex-workmate Daz for lunch and minerals, so my Darling had to walk to town which takes another 20 minutes.
I got myself ready for the 11:00 cardiology call — paper, pen, water — while my Darling, all dressed up and smelling wonderful, hugged and kissed me goodbye.
———
The cardiologist was timely, clear, and concise. Much of it went over familiar ground, but that’s exactly what I needed. We talked symptoms, frequency, today’s AFib episode, and when to call for help.
Then came the unraveling.
She asked if I knew my prognosis yet.
“No — but in two weeks, hopefully.”
She mentioned the email I’d sent her boss seven months ago about possible surgery for my leaky mitral valve.
“Did you receive the reply he sent you, asking for you details about your cancer diagnosis and prognosis?”
I sighed. “No.”
“No wonder nothing’s moved forward,” I murmured inside my head.
Then she told me the truth plainly:
Open-heart surgery isn’t on my menu.
The cancer risk factors make me a real dead-on-the-bed prospect. And depending on the prognosis — which I don’t yet have — I wouldn’t likely be a candidate.
I put the phone down with a sigh but grateful for some honesty at last, if slightly caged by the reality.
Right then. To the pub.
———
The first long chat was with a mate I used to drink with — he’s seen the light now, encouraged by me and others who know all too well how life can turn on a blood test and a urologist with firm hands.
Ouch — indeed.
The second mate is only a couple of years older, and our third beer-festival companion died a few years ago from heart failure. So he too keeps an eye on his health — when it comes to eating and drinking — and my eyes open for new treatments quietly waiting in the wings that might help us one day.
But today was about food, drink, and nonsense.
My stomach was still sore from the harpoon and the aforementioned blue cheese ploughman’s, so I didn’t need much food. The Ramen noodles looked and were delicious; Dave’s beef madras was a steaming hot cauldron shown by his forehead full of globules of sweat.
We chatted endlessly about this and that as usual. It was only a two beer night — mine was a stout that was sweet but “interesting” at first but later became very drinkable. Dave’s IPA was just what he wanted and got.
Sadly there was no room for dessert.
The clock on the wall told us it was last-bus time for me.
We parted ways, texted to confirm safe arrivals, and agreed on another meet-up soon.
My Darling was already in bed, even though I was home early by my old standards, but 9:30 was quite late enough.
I fell asleep quickly, knowing I’d ache in the morning.
It’s been a trying week. The weekend will be for recovery.
My prognosis was on the lips of the cardiologist — unexpectedly, and unsettlingly.
It feels like everyone knows except me.
What’s the point in that?
At least I learned something:
My prognosis is already ruling out interventions, a young guy like me, would otherwise have.
Such is life.
Good night.
