Post 243: Hospice advice makes sense.
Getting up for an early appointment at the hospice is a nice thing to do. There’s a natural, peaceful way about appointments there — somehow less testing and fraught than the GP surgery in town. And of course there’s no 10½-minute time constraint per person, which makes everything easier.
My Darling had been ordering things from the internet and enjoying the giving part of Christmas but not so much the wrapping. There was also another smile on her face knowing that Byron — our Youngest’s dog — was due to visit later. That should be fun.
I didn’t want a shower today; my back is still feeling rough, I’d only make it worse.
The car journey the other evening, after leaving my workmates at work, was still bothering my right shoulder. Just a small, quick twist to see what was coming from the right at a giveaway junction as I turned left was enough to damage a muscle and send dagger pains down my back.
So this morning I changed, but it was all I could do to pull a T-shirt over my head.
After getting dressed and enduring the pain, we headed out to the local big town Hospice. This chat with a doctor was initially a pain clinic check up but after being briefed by my oncologist, about the forthcoming appointment at the city hospital’s acute radiology unit, I didn’t know how it was going to go.
By the time I pulled the front door handle and got into the car, I’d already flared the shoulder pain badly. I struggled to swing and manhandle my legs into the footwell, but after a few wriggles I settled in. My Darling helped with the clunk-click, as she does every trip. I couldn’t reach, damn it.
Arriving at the busy hospice car park, I needed the same, few minutes, to get out the car before my Darling could park up. I’ve become a nightmare to everyone with my various problems knocking on to other issues — things I once thought of as “old people’s problems”, like my Mum had. Now it’s my turn, and I don’t like it.
I hobbled in and gingerly sat down in the café waiting area, only to creak straight back out again because the doctor arrived who then took us through to a quiet treatment room.
I remembered him from when he came to our house months ago, calmly dealing with me while the medi-bed was installed as I sat with pain gripping my chest and ribs, crying my heart out because I thought this was the beginning of the end.
Moving on… We got through the pain-relief part of the meeting quickly, without changes or complications. Then I uncomfortably moved on to the oncology side of things.
An interesting chat followed.
Firstly, the appointment on the 23rd was a pain clinic — exactly as the department name suggested. The acute radiology unit’s role is to find pain and quickly reduce it using radiology.
“Well,” I said, “that’s no use to me now because you’ve got rid of the pain. It would be a total waste.”
He replied that he’d be writing back to the oncology team after this meeting and could cancel the appointment for me.
Brilliant.
I then aired my frustrations about communication — emails funnelled through oncology secretaries, slow replies, delayed letters, and prescriptions hanging in limbo.
This resolved easily, and one prescription due to run out over Christmas was sent straight to the chemist. Yippee. I’d forgotten how much forward planning pharmacies need at this time of year — otherwise you’re relying on Santa.
The final part of our conversation was about my need to understand what’s going on inside me.
I explained that I’d seen reports from the WBMRI and other scans, but they only say so much — and it’s all gobbledegook.
This is where he made everything suddenly make sense.
The doctor explained that any report is written in response to a question. That’s it. The penny dropped instantly. A report answers the consultant’s question — nothing more. That’s why it’s so hard for my team to answer my broader questions about what else might be affecting me. That data simply isn’t there for them — or for me.
Now I understand why I’ve been getting the right royal runaround.
I’ll have to realign my thoughts and expectations.
We said our farewells and left him to write the cancellation letter to oncology.
Back home, after suffering the same pains again for the same reasons, I reached for the oramorph and took a 5ml swig. It won’t fix the pain, but it’ll make resting easier before our four-legged visitor arrives.
Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I was up for a young dog in the house when I can’t move easily. I’d like to enjoy him properly, scratch behind his ears, see his tail wag. Ah well, I’ll just have to be more careful today.
I settled down to watch some TV. I couldn’t decide between a snowy Christmas film or more of the K-dramas I love, so I watched both. The BBC’s Stuffed surprised me — I didn’t expect to enjoy it, but Guz Khan held it together beautifully, and in the end I was glad I watched it.
Then the phone rang.
It was Byron’s dad — my youngest.
He said “Hi Dad, how are you?”
I heard: Oops, there’s a problem.
He continued “Byron’s having attachment issues after his first week in his new home, and they need to work through it, so no visit today”.
“No worries, son,” I said — and meant it, “there’ll be another time”.
We talked for a while about my hospice meeting, and it made sense to him too. Then we said goodbye.
When my Darling came home from next door with her Christmas haircut, I explained about Byron. We were both sad — but also relieved we didn’t have to dog-proof the house or send Mr Vicious to the garage while a cat-eating dog explored his kingdom.
Counselling tomorrow.
I hope I can untangle a bit more of my twisted brain.
Good night.
PS
Dancing with good timing tonight so the rest did me good. Thanks for the advice many readers, I did as I was told. xx
