Had a pretty shitty night's sleep last night - from 2am to about 5am there was 'essential maintenance' on the ward above me which seemed to consist primarily of what sounded like a bunch of 30 stone blokes in hobnail boots frisbeeing steel dustbin lids around the place then trying to bash them flat with baseball bats - essential indeed. So it's back to catnaps to catch up.
Morning obs and tests have escalated again - 11! yes 11 separate vials of blood taken, more swabs and also my old favourite, the giant Q-tip up the bum. Then to top it al off I was kicked out of my room for four hours and sent to sit in the visitors lounge whilst my room was resterilised as the fella in the (now empty room) next door was found to have something contagious and there was a possibility that the lurgy could get into my room so both had to have a deep clean for safety.
I leant something new though, each of the rooms had to undergo high intensity UV sterilisation - a machine looking a bit like a skinny Dalek without the head or arm probes is wheeled into the room and left to run through its' cycle. I'm guessing this must nuke any nasties in the air or on surfaces. I was also able to sneak into the empty room in the early hours and nick the TV remote, they're like gold dust in here!
Went down for a CT scan yesterday afternoon/early evening and sat around in what looked very much like God's waiting room with up to, at times, ten other people all in hospital wheely beds and looking like haggard stringy shite. The more time I spend as an inpatient the more I appreciate my time at home - there are some poor people with chronic conditions for whom the NHS (bless it) is a way of life and I know it's not one I'd choose in spite of the organisation's best efforts at geriatric care.
If in 25 or 30 years things get too sticky for either Jeannette or I we've agreed that whichever one of us is the burden on the other will neck back the necessary lethal dosage of tablets and move on with some dignity and grace - I would hate myself for just hanging grimly on to life for the sake of burning oxygen and for being a drain on the resources and quality of life of those around me. Jeannette cheerfully reassures me that I've been doing this since the day we met - but I have to believe somehow that she's probably joking.
Haven't had any change in my meds so far, I'd like to think that a labful of keen eyed super boffins are at this instant rubbing their chins knowlingly, murmuring away as they work on my 11 vials of blood and botty swabs down in the basement of KCH - all frantically seeking the cure for my shitty chest/lung infection. An alternative scenario is that the tests have been subbed out to a firm with head offices in a cow shed in Uttar Pradesh and are making their way by bullock cart to a research team consisting of 8-10 year olds on a Yorkie Bar and half a samosa a day and that my results will be back in this country done dusted and complete for the princely sum of 19p in about 6 weeks.
Hmmmm - wonder which?
Before I close off this entry I thought I'd share with you a recent exchange between Milo (age 4 and a half) and me (nearly 52) whilst getting him dressed for school the other morning. Walkng him into the bathroom to brush his hair and clean his teeth, when he looked at the closed lid of the toilet where I usually sit to be on his level which was wet from (actual) shower spray.
He: Don't sit on there Daddy there's wee.
Me: No it's not - it's water from the shower - I just had one.
<I sit down>
He: No you didn't
Me: Yes I did
He: No you didn't
Me: Er yes I (to self f**king) did.
He: How do you know?
What a left field question. Then it dawned on me - he may not even be five yet, but he can see the matrix - he's the chosen one. Either that or the dirty little git sneaked back in to the bathroom after my shower and pissed all over the lid of the loo after I was done.
Hmmmm - wonder which?
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