Post 276: Thank you’s, ashes and a frozen right shoulder.
First of all, allow me to take a moment to thank a few readers who are so kind and vocal to me in ways that hold me up when I feel the world slipping from my grasp. You know who you are, and I’d just like to say thanks.
It’s so easy to go along in this life and have friends and strangers hold your hand to steady you in times of trouble. But it takes more than a little humanity and effort to actually say what you’re thinking and care for that person in need. I really appreciate the words given to me that help me more than I can say.
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After the usual stuff to get ready for the morning’s appointments, we headed to town, firstly to see my newly appointed GP. She is the first “real” doctor for me in six or more years due to the previous doctor having a baby and never coming back then there was Covid! So I’ve had many temporary and fill-in doctors over the years, so this is refreshing and hopefully a step up for me and my body.
My Darling has a doctor in a practice in a nearby village and I’ve not yet gone with her because I’m lazy and I want continuity for my own selfish reasons. So I’ll stay here in town.
After a scary wait of five minutes in the practice waiting room, where the notices about masks and flu were completely ignored by the snivelling and coughing masses patiently awaiting the call to get seen by the doc, I shallow breathed beneath my brand new face-mask.
I was thankfully called by a smiling, medium-height lady doc who led me to the other end of the building, down the corridor of truth, away from the coughing and snivelling. I was asked very cheerfully to sit and instead of saying the usual “sooooo, what brings you here today?”, it was a clear and informed voice that asked me about my shoulder. That was a great start.
The movements I was asked to perform with my dodgy arm were at times a little painful, but there was a quiet professionalism from this middle-aged doctor that put me at ease and quickly led to the conclusion that it was a frozen shoulder.
“But,” she said, “because of your history” (wow, this is getting better — she’s read some of my recent notes), “I will get an ultrasound scan of your shoulder locally and an X-ray too, just in case something’s broken or we’re missing something.” She continued with, “because I see your last DEXA bone scan was three years ago and you have some osteoporosis.”
This thorough check blew me away, but I kept calm and let her deal with me and the computer paperwork until it was time to go.
We walked back down the corridor of truth with a very high score for her abilities on this first meeting. As we were singing her praises, a practice nurse who heard us said, “Are you happy with our new doctor?”
To which we both replied, “Yes, she was brilliant, thanks,” and turned the corner back to where we started.
I held my breath as I walked back past the coughing and snivelling, out into the fresh morning air.
Later in the afternoon, while I waited for a text from next door to pop over for a much-needed haircut, I had a 0300 call on my phone, which I now remember is possibly NHS bookings. As it happened, a friendly staff member asked if I could come in for an X-ray tomorrow at 10:10 due to cancellations. I quickly replied yes, and after this relieved and slightly shocked response, this call ended.
Wow. That was quick, and very easy. Let’s hope there’s not much to see on the plastic sheets of bone and black.
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We came home from the doctors very happy that my right shoulder is going to have plenty of reviewing before some physiotherapy gets the movement back and the pain reduced. I can only hope.
My Darling had an egg-straordinary toast concoction of scrambled eggs on top of that green fruit with the big stone and wrinkled black skin, while I chewed on my marvellous marmalade meal. Yum yum.
That reminds me of the text I received from my lovely daughter-in-law the other day, who had visited the Angel of the North for the first time at the weekend. But I digress.
The text was about the annual festival and grand celebration at Dalemain near Penrith, Cumbria, for the “World’s Best Marmalade”. Now in its 21st year, it’s a family day out with over 3,000 entrants and a very special guest — Paddington Bear.
The reason my daughter-in-law mentioned it was because I was Paddington in a previous life. If ever there’s a chance to spread the sweet-and-sour delight on bread, crackers or anything within reason, I will.
Thick rind, but not too thick. Sourness is king. Seville oranges rule.
I really should go to it. I just wish it wasn’t so far away. Maybe it calls for a late-April family visit. We can but dream.
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Back at the house, plates cleared, my brain finally cleared and I remembered the devil’s food under the scrambled eggs — avocado. My brain fog strikes all too regularly, leaving sudden mental constipation.
Talking of which, my bowels have still not settled, probably due to so much pain relief. A nuisance, but not breakfast-table conversation.
We started to gather our thoughts for the funeral directors appointment very soon.
Using my blue badge, we parked close in a nice wide space that even I appreciated. The very friendly directors mate talked through everything — from my final eye to eye moments with my Darling to the scooping of ashes into a green cardboard box. Lovely jubley.
I think he was surprised I was there, the “to be” deceased, but appreciated the forward planning.
Afterwards, my Darling needed a drink. I was oddly ahead of her emotionally. I’d forgotten that in the last five months she’d lost two dear brothers suddenly. My mind was on me; hers was elsewhere. I can be so very selfish sometimes without meaning to be.
Back at the car, she said, “Let’s have a coffee.”
Then: “We’re walking — it’ll be good for you.”
Oh my God.
She set off at a pace that nearly killed me. Halfway there I was breathing hard and had to ask her to slow down. At the pharmacy, after giving my home details and inside leg measurement, I had to sit. I needed the chair. Just that walk up here to the high street had done me in.
The coffee place was mercifully close — that Costa-lot place — and my legs recovered enough after the slow sipping of the drinks for the gentle 1:300 gradient back to the car.
Home at last. New cream (called Diclofenac Diethylamine). Fake Netflix fire. Notes written.
Later, after my haircut, the pain hit. A gulp of oramorph helped.
I lay on the sofa with my head between my Darling’s knees — a very different meaning now we’re older to when we were young and inquisitive. But as I settled with her on the sofa I held her hand and realised how cold I was.
Time passed. Dinner came and went. Another day gone — but a busy, useful one.
Happy days.
Good night.
