Sick notes

I write this from my sickbed.  One thin, pale hand faintly gripping my quill pen, ink bespattering my fine lawn nightie as I scratch down my thoughts, the servants tiptoeing around me as they add more coals to the fire and bring me my morning gruel.

Well, almost.

I had to go into hospital last week for some non-life-threatening but fairly significant surgery, and am still very weak and feeble as a result.  I was kept in overnight, which is incredible - isn't it wonderful what they can do with keyhole surgery these days - and have only had to take paracetamol and Ibuprofen to manage the pain.  The single most tiresome after-effect is the tiredness, and physical inability to do Stuff.

I can't lift anything heavier than (for example) a half-full kettle, and bending over to try and pick something up from the floor is slow and painful.  I'm becoming adept at using my foot to flick things up to within hands reach.

Not everything, obvs.  Soft, flexible, grippable things like a sock, or a tea towel, or a tissue.  If I drop a book on the floor, there it stays until Mr WithaY can pick it up for me.

I'm not allowed to drive for a month, possibly 6 weeks, which is already becoming irksome.  Thankfully the weather since Christmas has been appalling, reducing my desire to go outside and stand in it.  I am hoping that by the middle of next week, after my stitches have been removed, I will be able to go out with Mr WithaY and the dog for short strolls.  I won't be able to hold the dog lead myself, as she instantly behaves like a world champion sled dog when put on the lead, but I will be able to accompany them.

Speaking of the weather, which of course I am, being British and all, hasn't it been wet? And windy?  The river out the back has been raging, and a couple of times has overspilled the banks onto the meadow which our back garden is bounded by.  According to The Internet, which is never wrong, most of Salisbury is under water, and the valley between here and there is now some sort of aquatic haven for all manner of waterfowl and (possibly) sea serpents.

Just to make things that bit more amusing, Mr WithaY has contracted the Village Cold, which all our neighbours had over the festive season. He is shuffling round the house, unable to breathe or hear properly, flushed of face and hoarse of voice.  I look forward to catching that myself in due course, but hopefully it won't make me sneeze too often, as that hurts my poor hole-punched tummy.

Also, the dog had to wear one of these for a few days as she managed to stab herself with a stick (we think) whilst cavorting through the woods like a maniac:

I might get one too if my stitches start to get itchy.

Slots

Oh yeah, I remembered what I meant to write about in my last post, before I got sidetracked by dull domestic trivia anecdotes. If you can call a pointless whinge about nothing much at all an "anecdote," I suppose.

Anyhoo.

When I went to see my friend in hospital last week, I was a bit nervous.  Partly because I was apprehensive about seeing her after such a catastrophic event, and partly because I was dreading doing or saying the wrong thing and somehow making her feel bad.  I know that's not entirely rational, but it was in the back of my mind nonetheless.

I was also a little bit anxious...maybe that's too strong a term....apprehensive, maybe, about the actual logistics of the journey.  It struck me that since giving up my hellish 6 hour round-trip commute last May, I have made far fewer long journeys than I probably ever have in  my adult life.  I've been down to visit my lovely Mum a few times, been up to Ragdale Hall a couple of times, and travelled extensively* around and about the local area, but it was the first time I was driving myself somewhere unfamiliar in a while.

I have actually driven around Southampton quite a lot, but not recently, and the last time I went to the hospital there was about 20 years ago, to visit Father-in-law WithaY after HIS catastrophic life-changing event.  So, it was pretty likely that the road layout would have changed.

I did all the usual stuff, like looking on Google maps and whatnot, and I have my trusty satnav now, following the Watford Gap Incident last summer.

Gah.

I'd arranged to get to the hospital at about 4pm, both to avoid the worst of the rush-hour traffic, and to be there at the same time as a couple of other people that I wanted to see, so I set off from home at 3.15.  It only takes 45 minutes to get to Southampton, and with my satnav glowing at me reassuringly, it was all going to be plain sailing.

Aha, well, yes.  It would have been, had I checked that the postcode I entered for the hospital was for the correct bloody place.   I got right into the heart of the city, driving all the way across it in fairly heavy traffic, arriving at the selected destination at 4pm on the dot.  Perfect.

But wait.  What's this?  No Accident and Emergency facility here?  Large signs in the carpark for the diabetic resources centre?  No ambulances? No people, come to that.

It turns out that there are TWO large hospitals in Southampton.  One is the Royal, which is pretty big, but not quite as big as the General, which is where I should have been.  So, thanking the powers that be for iPhones and 3G coverage, I found the postcode for Southampton General hospital, and made my shamefaced way there, arriving 25 minutes later than I had intended.

When you get to their carpark (much, much bigger than the one at the Royal, I must say.  And more ambulances) you take a ticket and the barrier opens and lets you drive into the multi-storey bit.  You park your car, go to the hospital, pay your visit or whatever, and then, on your way out of the building, you put the ticket into the machine to find out how much you have to pay for the parking.  Fairly straightforward really.

Well.

If it's dark, and you're a bit on the emotional side after visiting your very dear friend, and there is a huddle of dodgy-looking people hanging around in the shadowy periphery of the entrance area, it's easy to get flustered.

And if the ticket machine is badly-lit, to the extent that several of the electronic screens are unreadable, and the only bit that is brightly lit looks like a ticket slot, but it's dislodged and broken, it's easy to get a bit confused.  And, then, it's a simple matter of poking your carpark ticket into the slot, and realising the instant you do it that you have probably just fed your ticket down the side of the broken slot bay, and therefore into the bowels of the machine.

I muttered profanities, and then pressed the "Call the Assistant" button.

A crackly voice came through the intercom.

Carpark assistant:  Yerrrrrs?

Me:  I'm very sorry, but I can't get the machine to read my ticket.

Carpark assistant:  Just press the Cancel button, love, and try again.

(Note:  all of the buttons were shrouded in gloom, and impossible to identify.  I pressed a few anyway, just for the look of it.)

Me:  I think it's eaten my ticket.

Carpark assistant: (wearily)  Ok.  I'll come out.

A large, burly man in a reflective jacket** walked out of the hospital, causing the huddle of dodgy-looking people to scatter and melt into the darkness, much in the manner of a feral gang in an apocalyptic film set in a City Of The Future.

He looked at me.  I looked at him. He sighed.  I made a sad face, trying to look like I wasn't an idiot, whilst acknowledging that he would be within his rights to consider me thus. It was a tough expression to pull off, but I managed it.

Me:  I'm really sorry. I just realised what I did, I think I poked the ticket through this hole, and it got lost in the machine.

Carpark assistant:  Aaaah.

Me:  Can you recover the ticket, do you think?

Carpark assistant:  Hmmmm.  (He frowned, scratching his chin thoughtfully with the aerial of his walkie-talkie.)  I could, yeah.  But it's a right old hassle.  Tell you what, when you get to the exit, press the Call button on the ticket machine and I'll let you out.  What's your name?

Me:  That's very kind!  So...should I pay you?  (I had the right money in my sweaty paw, ready to pay my debt to the Southampton Hospital car-parking authorities.)

Carpark assistant:  Nah, that's alright, love.

He grinned at me, and his previously intimidating face lit up.

I scarpered back to my car, found the exit, pressed the Call button as instructed, and was released back into the mainstream traffic of Southampton on a dark cold night.












*I've been to Frome.  And Shaftesbury.

**It reflected light.  It wasn't asking itself thoughtful questions about the nature of causality.

Irony

The snow has gone, as has Mr WithaY's sinus infection, also his scary red vampyre eyes. Relief all round, I can tell you.

We only had a couple of days of snow, but the temperatures rarely went above freezing for at least a week.  According to the thermometer in my car, it was -7 (Centigrade, sorry, American readers) at 9.30 one morning.  A neighbour had a reading of -10 on their garden thermometer, so it was pretty brisk outside.

Mr WithaY eventually went off to his bushcraft course 24 hours late, having spoken to the trainers about it, and also booked himself into the nearest hotel, rather than camp in the snow.  Ordinarily he would have done, along with the rest of the course attendees, but given the fact that he was still on antibiotics for his sinuses, the likelihood of developing pneumonia was too high.

So, he went off, did all his bushcrafty things in the snow, passed the exams relating to this part of the course, and came home triumphant and decidedly less snotty and septic than he had been when he left.  Result.

I spent the few days while he was away frantically boiling anything and everything possible, for fear of infection.  It was like a Victorian cholera hospital.  Bedding, towels, clothes, dressing gown, scarves, gloves, pretty much anything that had had any chance of touching his conjuctivitus-y skin was put through the washing machine at environmentally-destroying temperatures.  Sorry about that, environment.

I got it all washed and dried, and then thought "I'll get some of this ironing done, as it's too cold to go out today."

Things escalated.

By the end of the afternoon, I had ironed everything in the basket.  I was deedily putting my clothes away when it occurred to me that I ought to put Mr WithaY's away too.  There were two reasons for this burst of domestic philanthropy:

1)  He was away for a few days, so unless I wanted to leave them on the floor, I'd have to climb under them to get into bed that night.

2)  It was fairly likely, on past performance, that even when he did get home, his clothes would remain in a tidy heap in the corner of the bedroom for some time to come.

So, I started putting things in drawers and on hangers.  But wait...what's this?  A wardrobe with non categorised clothing hanging in it?  Shameful.  I moved a few things, just to make it look tidier...all the trousers hung at one end of the rail.  Oh, and the dark trousers hung at one side, and the lighter trousers hung at the other.  But if you do that, then the shirts ought to be sorted out, with all the white shirts hung together, and then all the countryman check ones, and then all the heavy green moleskin ones.   And the short-sleeved ones should all be up together so that when the weather improves they're easy to find.

Gah.

Other news:  Remember my friend I mentioned?  The one who had been all-but-given-up-hope-of just before Christmas?  I went to see her last week.  She is making remarkable progress.  There's still a very long way to go, but she is sitting up, talking - albeit a bit mixed up at times - but able to chat, eating "proper" food, and will hopefully begin physiotherapy shortly.  It's pretty damn close to a miracle.

So hurrah for unlikely and unexpected recoveries, I say.

Eating out

You'd think that going out for lunch would be a straightforward exercise, wouldn't you?  Leave the house at about lunchtime, travel somewhere that serves food, have some food, come home?  Easy. 

Even when you factor in the relative immobility of one of the people involved, how hard is it to go out and eat?  Not very, would be the answer.

Well, that answer would be WRONG, my friend, wrong.  West Wiltshire on a Tuesday lunchtime is a desert.  A food desert.

Admittedly, Bestest Mate and I have previous form in this area.  It has been known for us to go out for dinner, drive miles, sit and wait for hours fruitlessly*, and then end up eating a home-delivered pizza at 11pm because things went terribly, bizarrely, wrong in an entirely unpredictable manner.

So.  We hopped (in my case literally) into the car and drove out to a local farm shop where they serve nice lunches.  But wait!  What's this?  It's closed on Monday and Tuesday?  Arse!  Not to be daunted by such a minor setback, we continued on our way.

Every so often there would be a conversation as follows:

Me:  Ooh, I've never been down this road before...I think it might lead to FUCK SLOW DOWN a nice pub HORSE! HORSE! yes, there it is...shall we stop there?

Bestest mate:  Looks shut.  Let's take a closer look.

Me:  Mind that bloke...THAT BLOKE THERE...yeah it's shut.  Arse.  Keep going on this road...there'll be another pub in a HORSE! minute.

And so the long day wore on.  He's not a really terrible unsafe driver or anything, I was just a bit jumpy, what with not being able to drive at the moment, and my ankle hurting like hell every time we went over a bump or round a corner. 

We drove the entire length of the Wylye Valley, only finding pubs which were shut, occasionally glimpsing a pretty church or row of thatched cottages which we ignored in our feeding frenzy.  Eventually we turned onto the main road back towards the village, and decided to stop at the rather splendid Indian for lunch.  It was just closing. 

Nothing for it but to head back to the house, and go over to the local pub for a sandwich then.  But no...they'd stopped serving food.  Admittedly by the time we got there it was after half past two, but we still felt disgruntled. 

We ended up having a sandwich back at the house, and watching a DVD** while I sat with my foot up and whined how much my ankle hurt.

On that subject, I went and had an X-ray earlier this week, and got the result over the phone from a nurse this morning.  Apparently there is no "obvious bone damage" but there is "significant soft tissue damage".  And, helpfully, because I had the accident 3 weeks ago if it was a slight fracture it would be healing by now and might not show up on an X-ray.  So.  Probably not broken, but possibly broken.  Yeah, that helps. 

I can hop around a bit more easily, but I still can't drive as I can't hold my foot in any other position apart from "flat on the ground" without a good deal of discomfort, and stabs of pain in my anklebone.  So I am wiggling it about in short busrts, and taking painkillers when it starts to really play up.

God, I'm old.  Nothing works properly these days.





*also meatlessly, fishlessly, chiplessly and puddinglessly

**Tropic Thunder.  He hadn't seen it, and I still find it amusing.

Nantucket - The Fracturing

Soooo you know this sprained ankle I got on holiday?  When I fell over like a fool in Nantucket? 

Yeah, you remember. 

Anyway, it's been two weeks since the whole pothole of DOOOOOOM incident, and although the swelling has gone down a bit and the bruising has faded, it still hurts like billy-oh.  I rang the doctor's surgery on Monday to ask advice from the nurse there, who gave me some good advice (don't walk on it) and made me a conditional appointment to see the doctor on Friday if it was no better.

It was no better.

Mr WithaY came home from work early and drove me to the doctor, and dropped me off in the carpark outside, so I only had to hobble a few yards.  Once the traditional "awkward wait whilst chatting to people who might be horribly contagious" was over, I limped into the doctor's office.  Usually when I go to see my doctor it's because I have a chest infection, I am fortunate that very little else seems to go wrong with me*.   

He asked me what seemed to be the trouble, having watched me limp in slowly and painfully. I was tempted to say "My nose really hurts," but thought better of it.  I explained what had happened and unstrapped my ankle from the amazing neoprene and velcro techno-bandage I bought in America to show him the hideous offender.

He said "Hm, probably some nasty ligament damage.  I'll have a feel about.**"  A few moments of poking the soft tissue around my anklebone, asking "Does this hurt?  How about now?"  and me going "Nu-uh, nope, nothing," followed.

He looked at me.  I looked at him.  He poked my anke bone.  I yelped and went through the roof. 

"Ah," he said.  "That's probably a fracture, or a bone chip.  You need an X-ray so we can see how bad it is.  I'll refer you."

Well, to be honest, he first offered me the option of a "walk-in" at the big hospital in Bath, but as my gorgeous guitar teacher recently had 5 days of hell on toast in there with a broken AND dislocated ankle***, I declined.  I'll wait for an appointment at the local fracture clinic, which should come up in the next few days. 

So.  Still all strapped up.  Still not started my new job.  Still can't walk anywhere.  Still can't drive.  Unable to do much around the house, so even domestic drudgery displacement activity is out, I am getting bored. 

Suggestions for entertainment, please.

*Apart from the occasional violent bout of norovirus, which is frankly gross and terrifying

**Oo-er missus

***Playing cricket.  Honestly. 

Give him the chair!

I went into town this morning to pick up my sick note from the doctor's surgery.  Is it still called a sick note?  I think now it's a "Well, ok, you can stay off work, but wrap up warm and come back and see me in a few days, and if you're skiving I'll tell on you," note.

Anyway.  I went and collected it, then went to the weigh-in at Fat Club.  Stayed the same as I was last week, which I was actually pleased about as it's been a weird few weeks and my eating habits have been out of whack.  The antibiotics meant I was feeling even worse than the chest infection was making me, and my appetite had gone, so I was eating for the sake of it, rather than because I wanted to.   What with the stress of poor old Father-in-law WithaY being in hospital, and Mr WithaY and I not being allowed to go and see him with our colds/coughs, it was all a bit much.  So I shovelled down far more bread and honey than I am supposed to.  Comfort eating.  It works in the short term, but then you get depressed because you're a fat bastard. Gah.

Encouraging developments, though.  Father-in-law is out of hospital and back at the nursing home, where he hasn't been tipped out of his wheelchair again.  Yet.  We popped in briefly last night to see him, and he looks better, still terribly frail, but more cheerful, and delighted to see us.

On the way to the weigh-in, I walked past a cafe, outside of which gathers the rank and file of local life.  As I walked past, I overheard an ENORMOUS woman saying to her friend, "Worrrrl, I weren't going to not say nothing, was I?  Was I?  You know me..I says what I think, and if I dunt like something, I tell them, dunni?  Dunni?"

Her friend nodded eagerly, clearly enjoying the retelling of whatever epic encounter this was.  If I hadn't been late for my meeting I would have stopped to hear the rest. 

I have a feeling that the large lady came off best in it.  She looked as though it would take more than a battle of words to defeat her, and I imagine that she'd never even realise if she was taking part in a battle of wits.  She had the air of someone who thinks nothing of picking up a chair and twatting the other party with it to get her point across.

Other news: Watched Avatar on DVD last night. Boy I wish I'd seen it at the cinema. I loved it. Mr WithaY loved it too, and he'd been lukewarm about watching it to begin with.


I want to go and see Iron Man 2, but the reviews haven't been great, and Slyde was less than complimentary, so maybe that can wait for DVD too. 

It's not Lupus

Still here, still coughing like I am about to turn myself inside-out.  It's just lovely. 

Oh, please feel free to skip this bit if you are easily distressed, or suffer from a snot phobia, by the way.  Or pretend this is an episode of House.  Whatever. 

Actually, if Dr House could spare me a couple of hours, I'd be very grateful. 

Anyhoo.  As a change today, the previously fluorescent yellow matter emerging from every single hole in my head has turned pink, streaked with blood.  I am assuming that this is normal.

The doctor listened to my rattly chest yesterday.  He said: "Ugh.  Well, you've sounded worse," and prescribed me a week's worth of huge antibiotic horse pills.  On closer examination of the leaflet that came in the box with them, I discover that I am potentially being treated for:

1) Acne
2) Lung and chest infections
3) Syphillis

Or, of course, a combination of all three.

The pharmacist came out to talk to me confidentially when I picked up my prescription (almost £8!  Per item!  Free medical care my arse!) to whisper that if I am taking contraceptive pills, I need to take "additional precautions" for 2 weeks.  "Additional precautions" on top of the blood-streaked snot and hacking 90-year-old-man cough, you mean?

What virile chap could resist that?  Especially if the snotty, wheezing, grumpy temptress is sitting on the sofa wearing a huge fluffy pink bathrobe and an expression of sour misery? 

Yeah, you're wishing I had a webcam now, ain'tcha?

I could charge people to listen to my chest rattle.  Hot phlegm action, £8 per 3 minutes. Well, I have to cover the prescription costs somehow.   

Other news:  Father-in-law is still in hospital, but slightly more comfortable today, whatever the hell that means.   We're going to go and see him tomorrow, although in reality it will probably be me sitting outside the ward trying not to spread contagion while Mr WithaY goes to see his dad.

Also, have lost another 3 pounds this week.  That makes 16 pounds in 12 weeks, which I am really pleased about. If I keep it up for another 36 weeks I will be 64 pounds lighter, or 4.5 stone.  Which will be marvellous. 

Last week I put on a pair of plain black trousers to wear to the office, as I usually do.  I did them up and they were a bit loose.  But, one pair of my black work trousers has always been a bit loose, despite being the same size as the others so I didn't worry about it. 

I got to the station, got on the train, got to London.  All was well with the world.  However, as I started walking across Waterloo Station concourse, I realised with horror that my trousers were heading South. 

I grabbed the waistband (through my coat, very chic) and walked ve-e-e-e-ery carefully to the taxi rank.  Well, I didn't dare risk the Underground.  Once safely in the office I begged a safety pin from a helpful colleague and did a MacGyver-esque job of reducing the waist of my trousers temporarily.  Had the trousers been designed with belt loops I'd have nipped over to Marks and Spencer and bought a belt, but of course they didn't.

They are now folded up neatly in a drawer, waiting for the day when I can put them on over the top of another pair of trousers and pose for Before and After pictures.   That day will come.

Medical notes. Again.

Old friends are always welcome, aren't they?  You open the door, plump up the cushions, make them a nice cup of tea.  Then you sit together, catching up on all the small changes since you last met, and maybe a few bigger ones, until it's time to either make more tea or open a bottle of wine.

We ought to cherish these long-standing links with our younger selves.  Make more time to spend with the acquaintances who helped to turn us into the people we are today. 

So, rather than railing and whining at the re-appearance of my old mate Black Lung, I am simply nodding casually at it, wrapping myself in many warm scarves and drinking a lot of water.  In between coughing till my eyes dry up and weeping uncontrollably.

Frankly, among the shite events of the last few days, a recurring chest infection feels somehow comforting and familiar. 

I was at home on Wednesday, working away in my little study upstairs, a loaf of bread baking in the bread machine.  I planned to pop over to the nursing home that evening to see Father-in-Law WithaY, what with Mr WithaY being away and all, and he does like nice home-made bread for his breakfast toast. 

Anyhoo, the phone rang and I let it click over to the answerphone as I was in the middle of some work stuff.  It was the matron of the nursing home, ringing to tell me that F-in-L WithaY had "had a bit of a fall" and wasn't feeling too great.  A bit of a fall?  He can only move one arm, very slightly.  How the flaming bojangles did he manage to "fall"? 

Her message went on to say that the "fall" had in fact been as a result of her lifting his legs up to put them on a footstool, as he sat in his wheelchair.  Fuck's sake.  I'm no engineer but I understand the concept of leverage.  Fulcrums.  Wheels.  Lift one end, the other will go down.  Look at a seesaw.   

I got in the car and went straight over there in a panic, to find F-in-L in bed, in a lot of pain, shocked and distressed.  Well, you would be if you'd been tipped over backwards onto your head, wouldn't you?  I spoke to the nursing sister on duty, who was helpful and reassuring, asking what the doctor had said.  Turned out that the doctor hadn't actually been out - they'd spoken on the phone.  I queried that, and hey presto, ten minutes later the doctor arrived.  The doctor was charming, careful and thorough, and said she would call an ambulance as F-in-Law needed to be x-rayed. 

So, poor old F-in-Law was taken to Accident and Emergency at Salisbury, apparently was seen several hours later, and was sent back to the nursing home at 1am.  No bones broken, thankfully.

However, each time I went to see him over the next few days he was still in a lot of pain.  This culminated at 2.30am on Saturday morning when the nursing home called us at home to tell us that he had been taken back to the hospital.  The nursing sister (a different one) apparently sounded a bit panicky when she rang us, despite F-in-Law having expressly asked her to leave it till the morning to call us.  After a phone call like that in the wee small hours, you don't get back to sleep, do you?  So we lay awake, wondering what the new emergency was, and Mr WithaY rang the hospital an hour or so later. 

Without going into too much intimate detail, it was nothing too terrible, but we didn't find this out for a day and a half, in which time he'd had a CT scan and been poked and prodded about by pretty much everyone in the hospital, it seems.

The Bank Holiday weekend has been a merry-go-round of rain, cold, trips to the nursing home, then the hospital, interspersed with me coughing alarmingly.

Tomorrow I am going to make an emergency appointment with the doctor, because I am buggered if I am going to have another 8-week bout of bronchitis.  I don't think I ever really shifted it properly from the last time.  I've been coughing on and off since February, although not as badly as I was over the Christmas holiday.  No blood-speckled lace hankies as yet.

I'd say it was a pain in the arse, but so far my arse is unharmed.

So far.

Decorated

Hell of a story on the news lately about the young Army officer who ran out of ammunition. It's very easy to imagine conflict going on at arm's length, all remote and technical like a video game, till you hear about this kind of thing.  Blimey.

I was at Salisbury hospital a while back, hanging round the plastic surgery department while they assessed how well Mr WithaY's fingers were healing. 

He got the thumbs-up* from the surgeon, and we headed back to the car.  To get out of the hospital you had to walk along a huge corridor, passing many different side wards and rooms and so on. 

As we walked, a nurse came out of a side corridor pushing a wheelchair.  In the wheelchair was a young man.  Well, most of a young man.  He'd lost one arm, one leg (on the opposite side to the arm), most of the fingers on his remaining hand, and his face and body were a network of scars.  He looked about 21.  As they passed us I heard the nurse asking him "So, what medal are they giving you?"

I had to stop in an alcove and blow my nose for a few minutes. 

I'm feeling a bit grumpy and out of sorts today, with a scratchy sore throat and a headache.  It may just be because I am tired after the weekend and a couple of bad nights since, but if not, then I am getting a cold.  Which, with my track record is bound to turn into chest infection.  Ah yes, look on the bright side, I always say. 

Other news:  Kevin the Decorator is back!  He is doing our hall, stairs and landing....walls, ceilings, woodwork and all.  We bought the paint ages ago, and were full of good intentions to do it ourselves, but what with everything** going on over the summer we just didn't get round to it. 





* heh
**involuntary amputation, bereavement, SSFH, all that stuff.

Boldly going

I was quite taken aback when I looked at the blog and realised that I only posted twice last week. That's a poor average for me, and even worse when you consider how little I actually had to say that wasn't all about yet more medical emergencies*.

Let me explain.

I have had a very busy week. Not with fun stuff like going to country shows, or shopping for gifts with a huge unexpected legacy, or learning to drive a monster truck, or anything like that.

No.

It's been All About Work this week. I'd bore you with the details but I think I'd probably get the sack, so best not, really. Suffice to say it's been very busy and as a result I am waking up at 4am with a rising sense of panic most days.

It's not big and it's not clever, and it certainly isn't doing much for my appearance. I have developed huge dark rings under my eyes, an interesting pallor and lumpy flaky skin. Mmmmm-mmm.

When it hasn't been All About Work, it's been All About Fretting About Mr WithaY. Fretting is my own particular specialism in the field of domestic nursing. I am rubbish at the practical stuff, but boy can I fret myself into a tizz whilst not actually helping anyone.

So, well done me for that.

To be fair to myself, I am pretty handy in an emergency. I don't faint at the sight of blood, I can keep calm and sort stuff out, I can plan contingency stuff to mitigate the situation (sorry, this sounds like work again), I can even deal with hospital staff without clinging to their lapels and shrieking. But once things start to settle down and I am back home, I am frankly a bit crap.

The good news is that Mr WithaY is much better. His hand is slowly losing the swelling, and with a bit of luck when we go and see the plastic surgery people at the hospital tomorrow they will be able to tell him how soon he can go back to work, drive, play the bongos etcetera.

Fingers crossed. Heh.

Other news: Whilst on the train home on Thursday, I sat next to an elderly lady. She was very sweet, and we exchanged a few pleasantries as we got settled for the journey. It was a sunny-ish evening, and the carriage was a little warm, but one of the windows at the far end was open so now and again a gentle breeze could be felt. The sweet old lady was reading a book, or looking out of the window. I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and playing solitaire on my lovely, lovely iPhone. Not too bad at all.

All that was to change.

The guard, a large, cheerful chap, came stumping through, checking our tickets. He got to the group of people sitting around a table a couple of rows in front of me, and leaned across to open their window with his special key, announcing "You'll be wanting this open! It's very warm in here!" They didn't argue, probably because it was all done in a flash, and after all, having the window open is a bit of a change on the train.

The window fell wide open with a thud, and he clumped on his merry way, obviously feeling that he had done us all a favour.

The second the window opened fully, a howling gale whipped through the carriage, making my hair fly about wildly, and flicking the pages of the old lady's book over as she tried to read. She looked up at me sadly, and I smiled back in my "Ah well, mustn't grumble" way.

I put my hair up in a clip and tried to ignore the strong draught now wrapping itself around my neck. I looked along the carriage. People were putting coats on, huddling down in their seats, closing their books as they gave up trying to read. It was also incredibly noisy; now and again the stench of diesel fumes rolled in. Very nice.

When the guard came back, 20 minutes or so later, the sun had gone in and everyone I could see was wrapped in coats, red-eyed, shivering, clearly miserable.

Me: Excuse me....can you please close the window there again? It's very cold and draughty now. We're getting blown to bits here.

Cheerful Guard: It is a bit breezy, but if I close the window there's no ventilation. How far are you going?

Me: Past Salisbury. (we were approaching Basingstoke at this point, still well over an hour to go.)

Cheerful Guard: (patting my arm chummily) Well, you can go and sit in the front carriage. That has air conditioning.

Ah of course. Good plan. I will leave my seat and walk through the train to the front carriage, where I imagine there are also no empty seats, and people are sitting in the luggage racks. Just like in this carriage, in fact. And all the other carriages that other people have been trying before they gave up and came and squatted in the wind tunnel of despair here.

The old lady looked up at the guard, her hair whipped into a birds nest, her eyes red from the dust and wind, her book abandoned.

Old lady: (tremulously) It is very cold in here.

Cheerful Guard: (now stroking my arm in a rather offputting manner) Well, I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do.

Exit guard, still smiling with the sense of a job well done.

What? WHAT? Of course there is something you can do, you stompy, grinning, shiny-faced galoot. You can go and shut the bloody window again.

The people sitting at the table where the window had been opened had tried to close it a couple of times, but it kept falling open. Clearly it could only be closed by someone with a key to lock it back in place.

Other, other news: Mr WithaY and I went to Salisbury yesterday to go and see the new Star Trek film.

Loved it. I now have a deeply inappropriate crush on Mr Spock, and want to join Starfleet. It's just like being 12 again.



*I could write scripts for Casualty now.

It's getting better

So, how is everyone? Things here have been quiet, as you might expect.

Mr WithaY is remarkably cheerful today, which is a relief. He spent much of yesterday being violently sick, I suspect from the antibiotics he is on. Today, though, much less sicky, and consequently much more cheerful.

I worked at home yesterday as I was anxious about leaving Mr WithaY on his own while he felt so bad, but I will head into London tomorrow as he seems to be doing better. Our lovely neighbours have been calling in now and again to make sure he's ok, which has made us both feel much better too.

I took him to the local hospital to get his dressings changed today, and apparently things are healing up well. It will be interesting to see how his middle finger heals up as the bone wasn't damaged, but a big chunk was lost.

Do fingers regenerate? If there is a molecular biologist in the house, please do let me know.

Other news: Before all the alarms and excursions on Saturday I made a start clearing out my wardrobe, piling things in a heap on the floor. My rules for heap-addage were as follows:

Anything I haven't worn at all in 12 months.

Anything that I do wear but which is horrible and faded and shabby, like half a dozen cotton v-neck t-shirts from Long Tall Sally that are all pale and tired and washed out*.

Anything that I put on and then take off again immediately because I think it makes me look fat**.

Anything that I bought from a catalogue because it was a bargain, and then realised was a stupid mistake. For example, oddly-cut knitted tops from Next that looked interesting in the picture but which display bra straps and/or bellybutton at inopportune moments.

Anything I used to wear "just for the gym" and nowhere else. I don't go to the gym any more and a collection of decrepit saggy t-shirts is not ever going to make me feel good about myself.

Anything that I have worn holes in, even if I still love it.

Anything with unshiftable paint stains from when we decorated the house years ago, that I have kept "just for decorating in".

It made for a very big heap.

About half of it went into the bin, and it really, really hurts to throw away clothes, even when they are worn out and shabby and full of holes. The remainder, some brand new (well, never worn, at least) went into a big bag and got dropped off at the charity shop on the way home from the hospital.

And now I feel much better for it.




*A bit like I am today

**I know I am fat, but I like to pretend I'm not

Lawnmower man

Today has been interesting.

Started off well, with sunshine, a nice cup of tea and free-range boiled eggs for breakfast.

We read the papers, chatted about our respective plans for the morning, discussed the possibility of going to the cinema at some point. I needed to pop into town* while Mr WithaY decided to mow the lawn with our funky new lawnmower.

He decided to go down to Father-in-Law WithaY's place and mow his lawns after he finished ours, so I as I headed off to the shops, I waved goodbye with a happy smile on my face.

I pottered around town, ran a few errands, dropped off the dry cleaning, all that sort of stuff, then headed home to start getting lunch sorted. I had a loaf of bread almost ready in the bread machine, and was going to do some lovely soup to go with it when Mr WithaY got home.

The phone rang.

Me: Hello?

Mr WithaY: (sounding unlike his usual cheery self) Hello. It's me.

Me: Oh hello! You ok?

Mr W: Yes. And no. I've had a bit of an accident.

Me: (Thinking he's backed his Landrover into a tree or something, and needs me to come and tow him home) Oh dear. Where are you?

Mr W: In an ambulance. Going to ....(conferring with paramedics in background) Salisbury Accident and Emergency.

Me: Oh fuck. What have you done??

Mr W: I've cut the ends of some of my fingers off.

Me: FUCK. How??

Mr W: (long pause) ...It was really stupid... (even longer pause)

Me: I'll meet you at the hospital. *click*

I drove to Salisbury, trying not to think about what might have happened. I know from long experience that Mr WithaY tends to underplay the seriousness of injuries to himself, so "the ends of some of my fingers" could mean an arm, or both, might be hanging off.

I finally found him in A&E, liberally blood-splattered and hopped up on morphine, a small plastic container in a bag of ice on the table next to him. The paramedics had searched the scene of the accident and found the end of his finger, and brought it to the hospital.

CSI Dorset.

So what happened?

You may well ask.

He had apparently, for reasons even he can't explain, stuck his hand under the lawnmower to clear some stuck grass while it was still running.

Yes. He poked his fingers into a razor sharp whirling blade.

As a result, he has lost the top joint of his ring finger and a big chunk of the top of his middle finger. They kept the bit that got lopped off to use for grafts, but apparently that wasn't needed in the end. No possibility of micro-surgerying it back on, unfortunately.

The plastic surgery team were fantastic, very reassuring and friendly. The A&E staff were brilliant too. One of them had to draw a big arrow in felt-tip pen on the back of Mr WithaY's wounded hand "in case they try and operate on the wrong one."

I left him as they were about to take him off for X-rays, drove home, packed him an overnight bag, and called our fantastic neighbours. Mr WithaY had been fretting that his Landrover was still sitting at Father-in-Law WithaY's house, so our neighbour very kindly came with me down to Dorset, finished mowing the lawn** while I picked up post and so on, then he drove the Landrover home to the WithaY house while I headed back to Salisbury hospital.

I found Mr WithaY in a ward (in E Bay...the medic had said "don't worry, we'll put a reserve on him" which made us laugh) eating his supper, with his hand all neatly bandaged up. They'd done the X-ray, whisked him off to theatre***, patched and tidied his hand up and sent him up to the ward in the three hours since I left him.

We chatted a bit. The Sister came over and I asked her if they were keeping him in overnight, as there had been some discussion about sending him home, but Mr WithaY and I were both unhappy with that suggestion.

The Sister agreed that he would be best to stay in hospital overnight, and that I should call in the morning and hopefully come and fetch him home then.

So. That's the plan.

I should be in bed now but am still too stressed and adrenaline-filled to sleep. Maybe I'll have a bath.

I really, really wish this hadn't happened.



*ha!

**with the Lawnmower of DOOM

***for surgery, not musical comedy

Grumpy

I am fed up. I hate Mr WithaY being away, and I am missing him hugely.

My lovely Mum has had a couple of days where she has not been doing as well as we had hoped, so that is upsetting, and I feel really low.

Still, my back is much better.

Other news: The new light I bought for the sitting room is a piece of crap, and looks awful. That was twenty quid well spent then.

Fish

It's snowing again! Blimey. Drove home this afternoon from bestest mate's house through some amazing special effects wrath of God hail and rain, and now it's snowing.


Saw my lovely Mum a couple of times over the weekend, she seems to be making good progress and was in much improved spirits, which was great to see. The care she has been getting is (mostly) excellent, the less than excellent stuff has been duly reported and dealt with by the rest of the hospital staff.

Went out for dinner on Saturday night with bestest mate after calling in at the hospital and had a HUGE bowl of Pasta With Stuff at Prezzo's. Was very nice, but far too much, so had to leave quite a lot, which I hate doing. Which is why I have such a fat arse, of course.

Saw Middle Sis and Youngest Sis, and resepctive families, which was nice too. Everyone was feeling much happier, as things are improving so much. Youngest Sis's little dog was very entertaining too, frolicking about and being an idiot.

Mr WithaY is still away, having decided not to come home for the weekend, as it would be a ridiculously long round trip. I think he is home on Friday next week. No idea, though, what time. And given my track record, it might well be that he gets home on Saturday, or Thursday night, or a week on Wednesday. So I am feeling a bit lonely and sad.

He managed to ring me one night last week to tell me how it was all going. Apart from having to get into a river, which was "bloody freezing" and falling off a log, or down a hole, out of a tree or something, and bruising himself considerably, it's going terribly well, apparently. So that's good to know.

Had a bit of a hissy fit earler when I went to cook some supper and couldn't light the oven. Cursed and swore, then remembered Middle Sis telling me that her new cooker (v similar to mine) had the same problem until the clock on it was set correctly. Ahahahahahaaaaaaaaa. We had a power cut the other night, didn't we? And I hadn't set the oven clock since that happened. So, I pressed buttons on the cooker at random till the clock numbers changed, then managed to light it. Hurrah.

Half an hour later, hot fish galore. Mmmmmmmmm.

And, assuming we don't get a foot of snow overnight, up to London tomorrow for another week of big city frolicks.

No news

Ah, blessed relief. My back is no longer killing me, and I can move around relatively easily. I did a bit of walking yesterday, to and from the station to the office, ad back again in the evening, which I think is about 4 miles in total. I am that sure helped a lot.

The journey home from London was enlivened by two lovely long-haired golden retrievers (I think) on the train, sitting quietly in the end of the carriage, wagging their tails when anyone went near them.

I miss having a dog still. Even our mental scary one.

Off down to Sussex shortly to see how my lovely Mum is getting on, and then staying at Bestest Mate's house as we haven't seen each other for bloody ages.

And I am taking my guitar. Ha.

Hair still looks fab, by the way.

Hairy moments

Well, an interesting turn of events this evening. Just in case we were starting to feel too relaxed, we were involved in a car crash.

Not our fault, in case you were wondering.

Middle Sis and I were heading off to the hospital to see our lovely Mum (now out of intensive care and on the mend, thankfully), and as we drove along the street, a complete twat came tanking out of a side street, completely failed to stop at the junction, and smashed into the back of Middle Sis's car.

The impact pushed our car into the verge, where we sat looking at each other in shock for a moment, then we leapt out of the car like the A-team on a mission, and confronted the perpetrator.

Boy did he look scared. And with some justification. Two large, furious, already unbelievably stressed women were about to make his worst nightmares come true.

However, his abject and heartfelt apologies, his immediate acceptance of responsiblity and the rapid production of his insurance documents meant we didn't pound him into an oily smear on the pavement.

Middle Sis's car is badly dented, but drivable, and no lights were broken.

His car was much more badly damaged. Ha. Fuckwit.

The reason for his appalling lack of concentration? A fucking satnav. He was blaming his satnav as he leapt out of his car, whereupon Middle Sis delivered an eloquent, pithy and frankly scary lecture on the inappropriateness of trying to program your fucking satnav whilst driving along the road.

So. A little bit of additional stress to make our day swing merrily along. Gah.

Other news: I decided to go and get my hair cut, as I was feeling scabby and dull, and made a spur of the moment appointment at Toni and Guy's, a hair saloon* I have never visited before.

They have vibrating back massaging chairs which you lie full length on when you get your hair washed. That was worth the money alone. And I got the undivided attention of their head artistic director (I think that's what they said he was) who teased, tousled, snipped and primped my hair till I looked fab.

We shall see how long the glamour lasts, but so far I am very pleased with it.


*I love the idea of a load of cowboys sitting under driers having their roots done.

Progress and plans

Things are improving. I am much relieved. Not entirely coincidentally, my back is on the mend, although I still walk like Igor, making distressed gorilla noises.

I can't get my work laptop to connect up, so am going to take this week as leave. My personal laptop is ok, though, so I can hook up to do stuff like this, and check my email, and look at the BBC website. All most useful.

Middle Sister has come back down, so we are planning to do some more work in Mum's garden tomorrow if it's a nice day. Assuming I can actually bend over and stand up again. It might even get me in the mood to sort out my own garden when I get home.

I am desperate to get the patio replaced. I need to redesign the garden layout, bearing in mind we have several immoveable objects (oil tank, gas cylinders, septic tank, sheds) that we will have to work around, and then find the money to get it done.

I want to have a new drive, rear patio, front patio and raised beds in the back garden with places to sit and have a glass of wine if we ever get another decent summer. All the hard standing around the house is shot to bits, and it's not worth trying to fix it. It all needs to be ripped up, the groundwork sorted out, and then everything replaced. I quite fancy a mixture of stone, gravel and cobblestones. But we will see what fits and how much it all costs.

Plus we need to comply with the new regulations on groundwater and drainage, so we don't flood the entire west of England whenever it rains. So. Plans for the summer.

I also want to plant some fruit bushes, raspberries and redcurrants, maybe some gooseberries. However, in reality I will probably just spend the summer watching the rain and wondering where the mole will make his next appearance.

Mr WithaY has taken to addressing the mole as if they are both World War One fighter pilots. "So, Mr Mole, the day is yours. This time. We shall meet again, my brave adversary."

If it wasn't so funny it would alarm me.

Back

Back in Sussex, but this time with my laptop, so am able to sporadically keep in touch with interweb stuff.

Things are slowly improving, so I feel much better than I did, although it is all still very worrying.

Plans for the rest of the week are fluid, and dependent on how stuff develops.

Other news: My back is fucked, as it traditionally is when I get stressed. Yay me.

Update

Have been down in Sussex for a few days, where my lovely Mum is seriously ill in hospital. Not going to go into detail, but we are all very worried indeed.
Middle and Youngest Sis have been (and continue to be) incredible, while all the nieces and nephews are doing everything they can to help out. Mr WithaY, Bro-in-Law and Bloke-in-Law are towers of strength.

Thankfully so far we've only had any two out of the three of us in floods of uncontrollable tears at once, leaving the third to pat supportively and make cups of tea.

I came home this evening and am heading back down to Sussex again for a few days on Monday morning. Work are being great, and I will try to arrange some even-more-flexible working once I know what the slightly longer-term situation looks like. I'm going to take my work laptop with me so I can at least try to keep on top of emails and stuff if possible. To be honest, though, it's rather hard to focus on work right now.

Thanks for the kind thoughts, they are much appreciated.

Hopefully, normal service will resume before too much longer.

Other news: Fucking idiot women drivers on roundabouts. TWICE on the way home tonight I had to brake sharply on roundabouts (where I had right of way) to prevent potentially tragic t-bone stylee accidents when fucking halfwit women pulled out in front of me. I was in no mood to smile sympathetically and wave them through with a smile. They got glared, gesticulated and sworn at. Fuckwits.

Still...

...anxious, and tired and sad. But hopefully all will be well soon.

Those of you that way inclined might like to say a little prayer.