Post 24: Downgrading the word, Massive
Vital statistics:
Temp: I’m ok but it’s boiling outside
BP: 116/77/50 
Weekly Weigh-in: 11st 7lbs (or 73kgs)
Hair: Spiked up like a hedgehog.
Anything else? Sis is over for lunch
——
Sometimes, it’s the smallest things that give away the massive love inside.
I’ll explain in a bit—but before that… I used the word massive in that intro deliberately, because I want to reclaim it.
For five days now, massive has been used in a shocking four-word diagnosis written on my hospital discharge letter: Massive Bilateral Pulmonary Embolism. But now I want to speed up my mental recovery. Part of that is making that word feel less terrifying; I hope is not such a massive thing. 
The other words in that phrase, Pulmonary embolism, is just one of those doctor-speak phrases I’ve heard on medical documentaries—easily brushed aside. But massive used to be just a small word, and I want it back.
A massive sandwich.
A massive explosion.
A massive pain in the neck.
The Prostate Massive. 
And now, my brain starts humming another tune…
“I want you back” (Jackson 5, 1969)
I’ve hinted before that my mind’s wired a little bit differently—there’s the confirmation.
——
Moving on swiftly.
The smallest things.
Yesterday I had a call from a patient experience officer following up on my PALS complaint. It was an empathetic, friendly call—just to say there are questions that need answering.
That’s all I needed. Tears started to well up in my eyes and I struggled to speak. When the call ended I sobbed. I needed to be heard, I felt at last I had.
I don’t expect anything big to come of this complaint—I just want answers. To stand up and say something was not right. I have questions but I especially want to know why I ended up in hospital last week when I feel someone should have known it was likely and needed avoiding.
Yes I would say that would I; but doctors are humans too. While we live we learn.
So that’s ticked one item off today’s anxiety list. A small thing—but a real help.
Today I chased up the prescription I need after the injections run out next weekend.
I’ll be put on apixaban tablets if it all works out.
I had to ring the hospital to get the amended discharge letter authorised by a doctor first and then get that new version to the pharmacist at my GP surgery.
All in a days work for a proactive Mr U.
——
As promised, My Darling came first yesterday with the intention of carrying that theme on everyday after.
I’ve tried not to be a pain in her neck, but instead of the walk I said we’d take, as it was way too hot out there (and officially the hottest May 1st in 35 years) so we jumped into My Darlings air conditioned car and pulled into a little café a few miles up the road.
We know the lovely owner, and it was so good to sit in cool and airy surroundings, eating delicious food, and just doing something normal for a change.
We waddled back to her car afterwards and returned home, contentedly full.
——
I suppose I should run through a quick medical update since there’s lots going on:
Last night, no ectopics, no palpitations. A perfect night. The extra beta-blocker is working well. Brilliant
Also, I’ve become quite the pro with my twice-a-day belly injections. At first I hesitated and winced—now, it’s no bother. After stabbing my belly I pat myself on the back and reward myself with chocolate. Ha ha!
I should mention here that the black patches on my belly are lightening but there’s a good sign of healing with all the yellow now showing. Very waspy.
My smartwatch shows my resting heart rate is back down to 43—down from a high of 57 last week.
Mid forties is way more normal for me.
I often get alerts that my heart rate drops below 40; sometimes at night or even during the day, but that’s just how my achy-breaky heart is.
It’s only now, that the stress has eased, that I can hear the tinnitus again—ringing loudly in my ears. Always there, but more obvious in the quieter bits of the day. It’s much worse at night.
Hot flushes? Still here. Fewer lately, but much more intense when they do appear.
Over the years I’ve tried various things—snake oils, sage (the worst for me), primrose oil (gave it up months ago), and acupuncture.
Acupuncture helped me feel more connected to the idea of mindfulness, but it wasn’t a cure.
The best trick? Layers. Zip-front tops. Light duvets. Nothing fancy—just easy to get off and on layers of clothes and a general increased airflow all around.
It seems somethings I’ll just have to endure.
——
I let My Darling mock me today, without reply, as I creaked up the stairs in my creamy-white stair-chair.
She giggles every time I use it. I think it’s the speed that gets her—or maybe just the sight of me, a full-on geriatric plonker, slowly rising or descending the flight of stairs.
And when I say slowly, I mean slower than a newborn sloth.
It creaks, and whirrs, and bleeps at the top like it’s announcing, “Well done! You made it upstairs!”
Despite the mockery, it’s a real blessing. On bad days, going up those stairs manually would be brutal on my heart and prolong my recovery.
Mentally I’ve been up and down lately. A bit fragile.
Even a kindness—like that phone call earlier—can bring a sudden surge of emotion.
The K-Dramas on tv get me too. Intense romance, deep sadness—they slay me every time.
I haven’t felt the need for help yet, but if these up-and-down feelings continue for much longer, I’ll have to look again for help.
We all suffer quietly, with smiles on our faces, hoping not to be found out.
It’s a part of each and everyone’s journey.
Still waiting on a date for my echocardiogram. I will chase it up after the long weekend—I’m getting impatient. I know I shouldn’t be, but I am desperate for information and answers.
——
Oh yes—the smallest thing that shows the massive love inside.
Let me finally explain…
Back when Mum had settled into her flat at Harbour Heights, she asked if she could treat me to something personal—as a thank you for the help I’d given her over the years.
I said she didn’t need to, of course, but nothing I said was going to stop her.
So one day in town, I had dragged her (kicking and screaming? I don’t think so) into a posh jeweller’s. Posh? They’re all posh to me as I’m not very experienced in them; as My Darling will tell you.
Mum was thrilled—she browsed the glass cabinets and had a good look around, and then picked a watch and a couple of necklaces to take away. It was then I told her what I might like if she still wanted to get me something meaningful. I chose a gold necklace. Something simple I could wear every day close to my heart. A reminder of Mum forever.
She gifted me a necklace and I’ve worn it every day since. Only for medical appointments and scans or taking a shower do I ever take it off.
I am getting to the point; I promise.
So last Friday, when My Darling and I headed into A&E; just in case the worst happened (which I did) I left the necklace safely at home on the dresser.
Later on when A&E were ready to move me and admit me to a ward, I suggested to My Darling who was running on empty, to go home. She was exhausted and emotionally wrecked.
She told me the next day that she had a terrible time sleeping but hated being alone.
Fast forward to when I had been discharged from the hospital and happily back at home. I went upstairs to rest and there on the dresser was my necklace—just where I’d left it.
As I put it back on, My Darling said to me,
“I couldn’t sleep without you the last couple of nights, so I wore your chain to feel you closer to me.”
My heart filled up with her love; it’s the smallest things sometimes that show the massive love inside. 
️
——
Not looping.
Anxieties waning one by one.
Mostly resting.
Still searching for answers.
