Posted by sean on September 17, 2020 at 2:39 pm in Health with No Comments

Yesterday afternoon was a hot one. If I was given a pound for everytime someone would walk into my little sideroom and comment on the extraordinary warm temperature, I would have about three quid. I asked if the windows could be opened any wider or a fan would be possible. I was told no on both counts. The windows because I might somehow make it to the other side of the room, wrestle open a panel and climb out. If I was capable of that, I wouldn’t be in hospital! The refusal of the fan felt cruel, but unlike most of the country, I haven’t forgotten that we’re still in the middle of a worldwide killer pandemic, so you’ll hear no moans from me. Apart from why are we getting this bloody heatwave in mid September?

Today has been your typical morning as a patient. Waiting. And more waiting. My sideroom is too hot, but my handheld fan is a Godsend. I’m pretty sure it is ok to use, as many nurses have noticed it. Despite how helpful the fan is to me, I would hate to break ward rules, especially concerning Covid. Even when being transferred onto the ward two days ago, I was given a face mask, but told that if I struggled as a result, I could remove it. Considering I was making such a short journey and the possibility that I may be saving someone’s life as a result of wearing it, I did so. It’s what any normal member of society does.

This set of blog posts seem to be a lot more boring compared to previous hospital stays. Perhaps I need to break a couple of major limbs, or nearly die in Intensive Care. If that is what it takes to spice my posts up, you can sod off! Make this hospital stay as mundane, boring and dull as possible.

Posted by sean on September 16, 2020 at 5:23 pm in Health with No Comments

It has been going on too long. I haven’t been well for weeks and while that drug being taken away may have acted as a trigger, other symptoms have developed as a result.

It was time to return to hospital. We had all tried our best, but specialist help was needed. I got to ride the ambulance again. I’m getting used to it now and almost enjoy it… almost.

I didn’t enjoy the hours which followed, being left on a generic ward for a suitable bed to become available. I felt very much in limbo. All the while, I was feeling increasingly rough.

I am not afraid to say that I ‘played on’ the fact I was feeling terrible. That’s not an admission of exaggerating the truth to hospital staff, but simply the fact I needed to get onto a suitable ward, where my BiPap could be used before bad things happened to me. I’m not usually that demanding person, but I think last night called for it.

As I was wheeled to my new ward, I overheard the chit-chat from the two porters pushing my bed. “This is going to Sideroom Blue, Bed 1”. Suddenly I heard alarm bells in my head. Was I sharing a room? I think that would be worse than being plonked in an open bay. Why say “Bed 1” if the room only has one bed. All was revealed… I’m an anxious puppy, who over analyses everything. Porters have the
their own special code.

My first encounter with a doctor was embarrassing. I forgot that they had to wear uniform. When one introduced themselves, I thought that they were a cleaner, so returned the greeting, smiled and waved. Then it dropped… that’s not to say be rude to doctors, but my casual approach embarrassed me yesterday as much as it amuses me today.

I didn’t have the greatest of nights. By that I mean that I hardly slept. There’s always so much to prepare for on the first evening. Doctors and nurses in and out the sideroom. Test after test. More questions than Chris Tarrant ever asked on ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?’.

Then, while I am having a lovely sleep, I am awoken at 6am. Sigh. At least I was in my own room and was kindly allowed to sleep in until 9am.

Anyone who has gone cruising will know that a lot of welcoming and socialising takes place the first day. This results in a late night. You could say it’s exactly the same as being in hospital, except it’s the opposite.

Today has been a tad on the busy side. Doctors trying desperately to diagnose what’s going on with me (where do you start?). Nurses being very kind and helpful, in between taking tests.

On the plus side, my lovely wife was allowed to visit. That meant so much. I’ll be seeing her tomorrow too. She’s incredible.

I should have a better indication of what’s going on tomorrow.

More annoying news – I may be dragged off for a scan tonight. As it’s getting late, can’t I just be left alone until tomorrow?

Wish me luck. I’ll need it…

Posted by sean on September 13, 2020 at 10:25 pm in Health with No Comments

I suffered my scooter accident 307 days ago and also many areas have got better since November, I am now suffering as a result of what I believe to be, advice to come off some tiny tablet which was never doing any harm in the first place.

I hate being unwell

I hate the impact it has on Claire

I hate missing work

I am so tired

and so fed up.

Posted by sean on September 4, 2020 at 10:48 pm in Health with No Comments

After sharing my latest ailments with anyone patient enough to listen, I received a well-educated guess of a diagnosis, where my mouthful of sores is concerned.

I actually received the same diagnosis from two separate individuals, which means it is almost certainly correct and just one step away from being as accurate as Dr Google.

… seriously, Dr Google is a fraud, whose false advice has almost certainly led to the deaths of more people than Dr Shipman. My diagnosis was made by individuals with a medical background, although for the best care, you can’t beat your own GP in the first instance.

Disclaimer over. I would have felt awful had one of my dwindling blog readers consulted Dr Google as a result of my tongue-in-cheek recommendation and died as a result! I don’t think he’s even registered with the General Medical Council.

Back to me…

The educated diagnosis was that my mouth was full of thrush. Fucking hell, thrush? I’d rather have foot and mouth.

My fear of thrush dates back to my school days, when a kid who I’ll just call Billy Big Bollocks claimed to be sleeping with lots of girls and had finally caught a Sexually Transmitted Infection… thrush.

While most self-respecting members of society would be mortified at the simple suggestion they may be carrying something nasty on their private parts and desperate to keep it a secret, the likes of Billy were a tad different…

He would treat his ‘positive’ result as if it was a military honour. Social media didn’t exist in the days BBB and I attended school, but if it did, his good news would be all over Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Bebo, MySpace, LiveJournal, LinkedIn and TikTok.

While we all believed Billy’s stories at the times, they were almost certainly all fabricated. Think Jay from The Inbetweeners.

More importantly, how on earth had I contracted an STI? There was more chance of me sprouting wings and flying to Spain.

I took to Google (I know, I know…) to find out if thrush is really an STI, or just a really sore mouth which shares its name with a small bird.

The news is good…

Thrush is not classed as a sexually transmitted infection (STI), but it can be triggered by sex and sometimes passed on through sex. Thrush is caused by a fungus called candida that is normally harmless. Thrush tends to grow in warm, moist conditions and develops if the balance of bacteria changes.

It sounds horrible, but at least it’s not an infection passed between careless, horny teenagers.

Posted by sean on September 3, 2020 at 11:23 pm in Health with No Comments

Just when you think that you have reached the end of the world’s worst afternoon tea service, the chef brings you out another shit sandwich.

This has been my last three weeks.

With Claire returning to work, it was my turn to approach something of a normal and meaningful existence. Things were sounding good with my employer – I won’t go into further details yet, but let’s say that I haven’t been forgotten.

The wheelchair I use upstairs, where I had previously always relied upon Claire to push me around, was now modified, providing me with the independence to get myself downstairs – something previously impossible post-accident.

Everything was looking rosy.
The next few weeks would be bright.
Instead they’ve been shite.

The chef presented me with the poo sandwich. Except it wasn’t a chef. The perpetrator’s profession was a consultant. Instead of the shitty sandwich I was given what I believed to be good news…

My cardiac issues, which literally almost killed me 26 months earlier, had been cured. Granted, I still have lots of other health problems, but knowing that my ticker is now working nicely is fabulous news.

Despite the upcoming bad stuff, I don’t see any reason why the consultant would be wrong and my heart isn’t healthy. Hang on a second – isn’t this story a tale of woe? So far it’s been brimming with positivity.

The problems started when the helpful good news doctor suggested I reduce my heart medication…

Not even thinking that this consultant may be wrong, I naturally obeyed. “Yes, doctor”; “No, doctor”; “Eat this seriously hot vindaloo curry? No problem, doctor”.

It took a week “off the pill” before I noticed the impact it was having on my health.

Breathing became a bit of a bugger. Some days later, my right foot swelled up into what I thought resembled a small loaf of bread. I was increasingly tired and started to cough up mucus.

I was prescribed antibiotics to tackle any possible chest infection. A week later, I have finished the course. It must have helped a bit, as I am only coughing up small amounts of crap, as opposed to an entire lung.

Unfortunately, while the antibiotics appear to have helped to tackle any chest nastiness, it has left my lips, tongue, throat and entire mouth covered in sores.

This made any attempt at eating a real battle. I wasted so much food, simply because I couldn’t take the suffering inflicted upon my mouth.

Anyone who thinks I’m being a bit of a diva should know that I can tolerant a lot of pain. Countless hospital visits over the past twenty years left me with little choice. So, yes, my mouth is buggered.

Put this alongside an ever-increasing ravenous hunger, due to under-eating for over two weeks (because of all the issues), and you have one nasty, vicious cycle.

After much experimenting, I discovered that it is possible for me to consume vanilla ice cream, without it feeling like I am taking part in some sadistic I’m A Celebrity game, where I am forced consume vast quantities of red hot embers.

On the plus side, I discovered a brand of instant chicken soup, which is suitable for vegetarians. Chicken soup is a wonder drug when you’re poorly and remains one of the few foods I really miss since turning veggie. Therefore, this find was of great excitement to me… my word, that sounds tragic – I need a purpose, routine and job back!

At the time of blogging, my mouth is still sore, but I am hopeful that it is improving. Yucky stuff remains on my throat, but in reduced quantities. Breathing is tough, especially in the evening, but that is getting better – albiet at the speed of a Hermes delivery driver.

The thing that makes me annoyed – no, angry – is that all of this suffering and wasted time could have been avoided.

Stopping that one small pill has acted as a catalyst for a major scare on the toilet, where I was left struggling to get air into my lungs – over three weeks of feeling breathless, tired and generally unwell – increased anxiety and stress – a chest infection – a foot the size of a Hovis loaf – and a mouth full of agonising sores.

When the consultant suggested I stop taking the pill – which was doing no harm – I wonder if they considered the effect on my respiratory system.

Anyway, should our paths cross in the future, I will continue to hold full respect and trust for them. The consultant meant well and was acting with my best interests at heart – excuse the pun!

If any doctor ever offers to decrease my current drug list, I will exercise one hell of a degree of caution!

“Yes, doctor”; “No, doctor”; “Stop taking this cute yellow pill? Only if you stop breathing natural air, that way we’re equal!”.

Of course I wouldn’t be so callous to say that. I would simply say “no thank you”, before explaining my reasons.

So to round off, I still feel pretty shit. I’m back on the pill and improving with each day. It’s taking far too long. Cry me a river.

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