Post 529: Breakfast at midday with my taxi driver Paul.
How rude it is to call Paul the taxi driver when he’s a great mate that I’ve know for years and years.
Back in the mid to late 80’s we met as work colleagues but we’ve kept a line of friendship through all those years, it’s just that he’s my taxi driver for the hospice run I need today.
We we in the slightly posher café with a drink in hand deciding what to have and after ordering the eggs Benedict for him and a toasted cheese, beans and bacon for me we settled in a reviewing chat while the food was being prepared.
The doctor was a delight though we had to wait till after I had my counselling to have the face to face review of my situation. Incidentally the councillor was as she always is, a fabulous person and immediately helped me through a few probing questions to loosen my tongue, which it did. But the time beat us and that 40 minutes disappeared along with a few tissues to dry my cheeks of joyful and sad tears.
I was just back with Paul in the café waiting area when the doctor approached me and took me off to be reviewed and apart from a quick and careful prodding of my back the meeting was verbal.
The facts being what they are were very soon after I left the hospice, conveyed to a midday meeting of the whole staff for their daily review whereby they made a plan to Krause my 0.5 steroid that’s a holding pattern (for ever like) and confirmed that my maximum daily intake of Oramorph is (up to) 7.5mls six times daily.
We were eating our chosen meals and chatting about the way our lives are going for now while munching on what can only described as a fabulous simple meal we were lapping up. After said (late) breakfast we headed home and my thank-yous were sincere for his help in taxiing me about and happy that we were able to meet up and chat too. He’s also able to help me for the next two weeks, because his work-rota allows it and he’s willing to help me.
What a star 
️
I settled down to watch tv and wait for my darling to get back from work but first came the call, from the doctor I met this morning, saying that the steroids were going to be upped to 2mg a day and the prescription will be sent on to your pharmacy, (as I’ve already said - sorry).
I explained the situation to my Darling when she arrived home but afterwards and with exhausted eyes and body went straight to bed but asking for one thing before she went up the creaky stairs, which was “a bottle of wine”, “for later” she added.
I had to get my jabs at 3:30 pm so I could get her the bottle she craved and a few bits of fruit for my puddings, to stop me hunting through the cupboards for food just like a hungry mouse; a very big mouse at that, ha ha.
I set off to the pharmacy (that’s located in front of my GP surgery) and tangled with the infant school mums on collection duty leaving no space for locals to get to town passed their Chelsea tractors, but I squeezed through regardless and eventually got parked up behind the surgery for both my flu and covid jabs.
More tears stained my tissues when the usual question was levelled at me inquiring about my authenticity for having the jabs in the first place, seeing as I’m such a young chap (in my dreams) and healthy looking (normally); to which my answer is “yes”, “incurable stage 4 prostate cancer” - which floors the questionnaire for a few moments after a quietly spoken “I’m sorry to hear that”…
I fell apart as he looked away in slight embarrassment. His question was valid and for 4 years I’ve had the same question asked to which the answer always elicits the same answer from me and so often similar tears and embarrassment.
Today of course I was a little more sensitive due to my counselling session which is why my tears were falling so strongly, again, without any hesitation.
After a couple of jabs I really couldn’t feel to be truthful, I composed myself and said my Thank-you-goodbyes and headed to Boots for that new/updated prescription.
The pharmacy counter was busy at Boots and the waiting seats full, all two of them, so after the assistant went off in search of the meds of which there was only two “sorry” she said, “the rest will be here tomorrow, is that alright?”
I said “yes, of course it is” and before I went across to the waiting area along the end of the cosmetics aisle close by she added,
“It’ll be ten minutes…”
Well after half an hour my legs had had it. Both chairs were still full and my body was in get-out-of-here mode so I push myself to walk out the store for a change of scenery and went to get some strawberries and a bottle of wine du Papé, and returned to the queues at boots for another three-quarters-of-an-hour, before I was asked again for my name and postcode as I struggled out of the end of aisle seat and collected the two tiny pills after one-and-a-half-hours of delightful, diligent, depressing and unnecessary time in the dispense of this straight-forward pharmaceutical entity.
I was livid inside!
I was calmness and fortitude outside.
My astonishment at this wasted longest time to get dispensed those two pills was astounding and unnecessary but due to the busyness of the pharmacy and my quiet patience it was a close on unendurable experience.
I got home and my Darling was up, but she could instantly tell that I was pissed.
I was tired, I needed some oramorph, a sit down, a cuppa, a hug, a long hug with my Darling, before I could tell her the story of my day; which was mostly fantastic.
I calmed with some TLC and the drugs and together we watched the tv until I had eaten sufficient food to feed an army and needed my bed. Another long hug and kiss was in order before I grabbed the box with the two pills in it out of the brown paper bag of doom with Boots written across the top of it and went upstairs clutching that well earned packet of (2) pills.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! God help me! Ahhhhhhhhhhrg!
The bloody pills are both 0.5 mgs of steroid not 2 mgs of beautiful st.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! God help me! Ahhhhhhhhhhrg!
I tried to help myself to a few deep breaths but at this point in the day I was fully out of calm, principled thought and into the dregs of anger and despair.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! God help me! Ahhhhhhhhhhrg!
After a quick word with my darling, who was on her second glass of Papé and only had so much sympathy with one eye on the goings on at the “Vic” pub and the other on a third glass of wine, I dealt with this the only way I could a 9pm at night; ring the Hospice nurse line. Which I did.
And the answer to my question about “what is actually written up on my notes today for my new trial of steroids?”, “please”, thank-you very much”.
“2 mgs”, he replied, after a close inspection of today’s proceedings written up on my patient notes.
“Brilliant” I replied, “can you leave a note for the doctor so we can sort out how I’m going to get the right 2 mgs of steroid.
“Yes of course I can” he said, it’s all recorded so your call will be noted too.
“Thanks”.
Good night, and take care.
PS
So the lesson learned today was…
Firstly, check what drugs you’re asking for, mgs and all.
Secondly, every ten minutes, pop to the counter and politely check on the status of the dispenser dispensing your drugs.
Thirdly, take your own chair just in case you have to wait a while.
Mr U
