Day 163 in hospital.
Give yourself a pat on the back if you know where the title of this entry originates,
I had a whole 1200 word piece written and prepared for publication - which I read back after seeing some of the submissions to Facebook GVHD and MDS pages. I came to the conclusion that there are dozens if not hundreds of people suffering terribly who would be willing to swap places with me in a second and put up with my very minor current concerns. The blog entry I had written made me sound a little whiny, a little bit creaking door - so it had to go. Let’s just say although it looks like I maybe out soon, I’m bricking it that something big will crop up or escalate to screw me over.
Instead I’m going to tell you about a couple of incidents that occurred over the last week that may divert and amuse. Here we go.
I went down to surgery to have a camera inserted up my bot bot (sigmoidoscopy) a couple of days back - to check for signs of GVHD in my lower gut this could mean anything from reduced nutritional absorption, to the trots etc. Before the team got down to business, I was asked if I wanted a little something to take the ‘edge’ off. Now, I don’t drink, smoke or use recreational drugs and haven’t for years and years, but you know, who am I to turn down a free legal buzz? Furthermore a kodak up my butt-crack isn’t a memory I wish to preserve and treasure - so better to make this experience as fuzzy as possible.
So I’m laying on my side, wearing the special shorts with the slit up the back feeling a leeeetle vulnerable, when the anaesthetist reaches forward and slips the mask over my face. I start huffing on it furiously, anticipating a nice big hit to detach me from the fact that IT is about to happen - the secrets and wonders of my clacker are about to be on the telly.
30 seconds or so pass and nothing’s happening, I step up my deep breathing, really going for it - still nothing.
The lady due to carry out the procedure moves into my line of vision, all gowned up and wearing a see through plastic welders mask (I can’t bear to envision what must have happened to warrant the introduction of that particular precaution) - she’s looking perplexed.
“Mr Storey are you alright ?- you sound worried”
“This gas isn’t working - I’m not feeling any effects at all”
“That’s because it’s oxygen Mr Storey - you’ll get the anaesthetic injection in a minute”
Later the same week -
Due to above mentioned (possible) GVHD in the lower gut, I would say I’m spending quite a bit more time visiting the kharzi than the average Briton. Now, my calf/thigh muscles are pretty atrophied after 5 months of relative inactivity so when I sit down anywhere, I have muscular control until about the last 2-3 inches of the manoeuvre after which I just kind of drop down into position.
I think I was laying on the bed listening to music trying to grab a daytime snooze when the cleaning lady came in to do my room. Given that the Ward is full of pre and post transplanteers everyone is super fastidious about cleanliness and the rooms are thoroughly disinfected each day. I may have dozed, I’m not sure but the cleaner left and nature started howling. I entered the small bathroom backed up and dropped down into position.
Except it wasn’t the normal sitting on the loo position, this was an entirely new position. The type of position where your bum is immersed in cold water, where your knees are up by your chin and your feet are flapping fucking uselessly a couple of inches off the ground. The cleaner had left the bastard toilet seat up. So for the next 90 seconds or so I was left doing an upended tortoise impression, flailing around for traction to get my poor cold jacksy out of the loo. Such fun - I think there’s a term for it - Neptune’s Kiss.
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