Post 233: Another bad night and an A&E morning.
The last thing anyone wants is another day of woe because of pain that simply refuses to shift—but that’s exactly what I got.
By 2 a.m. I was ready to call it quits and ask for help. So I did.
I rang the hospice nurse-line and spoke to a very knowledgeable nurse who was emailing a doctor even as we talked about this new lumbar pain I was calling about. She offered the usual ward ideas—hot water bottle, position changes—but in the end said what I already suspected: ring 111 or go to A&E if the pain is too much. We can’t help you till the day shift gets in at 08:00am.
I put the phone down, thought about it, then decided to go to A&E. My Darling was getting up soon anyway and she works in A&E so she could take me in without any hardship, and then she could head to work while I got seen to. Perfect.
She was a little shocked when she woke up and I announced to her that I’d be coming with her, but she understood and rather than being worried she was calmed by me doing the right thing under the circumstances, and we were soon at our destination and went our separate ways inside the hospital.
My registration took seconds. Then I n a very empty waiting room I was quickly triaged, then wheeled to Bed 20 in A&E. The wheelchair was, I felt, a little over the top but the sister must have seen what I felt… rubbish.
A catheter was quickly put in my right arm, bloods taken, and later a paracetamol infusion given. Then I was left in relative peace while the doctor reviewed my history, scan reports, and today’s blood-lab findings before deciding on the best plan.
He asked why I wasn’t on any treatment at the moment, and I explained I wanted a break from doctors and nurses—ironic, given where I was lying. He didn’t disagree, sometime you need a rest. He also said the hospice was the best people to advise me on the way forward, but suggested increasing my slow-release morphine and, for the time being, adding an extra oramorph, seven 5ml doses a day, if needed. Beyond that, the hospice and GP could sort the long-term adjustments.
As for me, the pain had become quite manageable by that point due to the pain relief that was shot up my catheter, so all that was left was waiting for the discharge letter.
My Darling came for me at 08:45, all smiles. She was allowed to take me home, and that was the end of her shift too — early, yes, but they felt driving back snd forth would be silly. Happy days.
I was tired, but relieved. I knew the hospice would call later, and that this week my meds would change, hopefully lowering the pain.
In a moment of who-knows-what, I took a double dose of oramorph—still can’t decide whether it was an accident or subconscious intention—and was soon drifting into heavy eyelids and after getting upstairs to the safety of my bed, blessed sleep.
The hospice rang after a couple of hours to say they’ll review the discharge note (when they get it) tomorrow and call me back with a medication plan. If pain escalates in the meantime, ring them. And I’ll be getting a JIC (Just in Case) pack this week for situations like this in the future. Sensible. Reassuring.
I went straight back to sleep for most of the day.
We had to be no-shows at the Christmas dinner tonight, which was gutting. We love that annual evening meet up — good company, a cracking meal, the ritual of it all. But I was far too tired, aching in every muscle and joint, and honestly it was safer to stay home.
So that was my day.
What worries me most is that I keep hearing variations of your body’s knackered, you’re approaching the limit of what meds can do, solutions will get fewer. It unsettles me. Deeply.
Not because I feel any different today, but because the way doctors talk about my body has started to feel… bleak. Detached. As if the toolbox is emptying and they’re preparing me for fewer options.
If it weren’t for the incredible people around me—my Darling, my family, my friends, the hospice, my workmates—and this forum, I genuinely think I’d be floundering. Depressed. Or both.
But you lot lift me. You pull my chin up. You send positivity through digital pages like a warm current in cold water, reminding me that love—real love—still pours in from all directions.
So to my forum friends, whoever and wherever you are…
“Good on yer.”
I love you.
