Monthly Archives: May 2017

The Ages of Man

It was my birthday recently. Last year I moved from being “late 50s” to “nearly 60” and this year I entered my 60th year. At least, that was what I thought, but it seems to be worse than that. According to a newspaper article I just read they can call you elderly when you are 64.

Elderly is, according to the dictionary, a polite word for old.

I’m only just beginning to accept being middle-aged, so can’t help thinking that “elderly” is pushing it a bit. I just looked up “middle age” and found it is defined as the period between the end of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance. Clearly I need to concentrate more. The difference between “age” and “ages” is quite significant. I’ve also just noted there are two ways to spell ageing, (or aging). I didn’t know that, I just thought one was wrong.

Middle age, it appears, lasts from 45 to 65, so I appear to have squandered my middle years without noticing them. An article on the internet suggests that you are only middle-aged when you hit certain milestones rather than an age. They suggest 53 – 55, which still makes me middle-aged. As I hit most of the milestones I’m irretrievably middle-aged, regardless of the number of years I have lived.

I’m not going to admit to anything specific, but examination of previous posts will reveal that I have thinning hair, creaky joints, hirsute orifices, membership of the National Trust, inappropriate sleep habits and a deep distrust of technology, modern music and young people. I do not, however, own travel sweets, a sports car or bed socks.

Though my feet have been feeling cold in bed recently…

Meanwhile, I’ve had a letter from the hospital and learned a new word. The word is cystolitholapaxy. I just looked it up.

Sometimes you are better not knowing…

Back in the Game

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I went out for a walk today, my first since last week. Well, if you consider 200 yards a walk. I liked it so much that I may do it again before going to bed.

Strange to think that it was only the end of December when we made our plan to get out into nature and do more walking. Now I’m struggling to get out of the house. It just goes to show how life can change in an instant.

Here’s another example of how you’re life can change in an instant. I actually saw him at the hospital on Wednesday. He was crossing the car park in a wheelchair as I hobbled around to the Urgent Treatment Centre. I didn’t actually know who he was until I saw the news on my return from hospital.

So, I’m going to get a grip and start making a note of my walking every day. It might only be 200 yards a day, but as long as it’s 201 yards next time it’s progress. To put that in context, it’s enough to get me from the car park to the lake at Rufford. Getting round the lake may take a little longer…

The photos are from previous visits, but I’m hoping to get some new ones soon.

Through the window

Part 3 – Free at Last!

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After the drainage procedure the pain immediately subsided, and I suspect that what remained was due to the drainage rather than the abscess.

We will now deal with the bed. It finally arrived from a secret off-site location (after a second call was placed), at 9.30. That’s about 8 hours. I presume it was either stored a long way away, or that it was close and they pushed it all the way by hand. To suggest a third choice, that it took eight hours because they couldn’t organise a party in a brewery, would be a cheap shot.

It was a monster, requiring furniture to be moved round, and had a pump which operated constantly, and noisily, to keep the special mattress inflated (this strikes me as a bad thing in a piece of furniture designed to facilitate sleep).

There were other faults – the main one being that it was so high I couldn’t get into it unassisted. For some reason The Great Bed of Ware comes to mind. City Hospital is currently running a campaign (End PJ Paralysis) to encourage patients to get dressed properly and get active. Strange really, considering they seemed to go out of their way to render me immobile.

I won’t mention the the list of other faults, as several of them have already come back to me as bad dreams. It’s difficult to imagine anyone being traumatised by a bed, but I promise you, on top of everything else, that bed came close to breaking my spirit.

Once I had been assisted into bed, and we had addressed various problems with adjustments things took a turn for the worse when a junior doctor arrived with a cannula. I had hoped to avoid having one but it seemed that they couldn’t get enough antibiotics into me by mouth alone. When you think of the alternatives I suppose intravenous isn’t so bad.

As usual, it didn’t go in at the first attempt and the doctor decided to try my right hand. I try to avoid the right hand as I often catch it whilst doing things. In this case, I started by bleeding on the book I was reading; this wouldn’t have happened if the cannula had been in the left hand. Second, I caught it on the cuff of my nightshirt whilst preparing to wash next morning, This resulted in a cannula that stuck out at a strange angle. I got it roughly back in position and replaced the dressing as well as I could, but it wasn’t quite right.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of boredom punctuated by random bottom inspections. Dark forces are obviously afoot in the NHS, striking back at the rising trend of patient dignity. Under the guise of skin inspections to prevent bed sores, random members of staff wander along at irregular intervals and demand to see my heels and bottom.

I may refuse to show them next time, on the grounds I am a man, not a baboon.

Finally, Julia arrived to visit and help with my liberation. The first thing she did was point to a spot by my side and say “What’s that?”

It was the cannula. I must have plucked it straight out, which couldn’t have taken much effort as I didn’t even notice.

We asked a passing nurse to dispose of it instead of leaving it lying about. She didn’t seem grateful for our help in keeping the place tidy, but maybe she was just sad at the idea of losing me.

Part 2 – The Pain Continues

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Quick note – the antibiotics are working and I’m near enough free of pain, but as I’m writing about Wednesday night and Thursday I thought I’d go for sympathy via a heart-rending title.

My reward for demonstrating fortitude was a letter to Harvey 2 ward at the City Hospital. That was where, a month previously, my tale had started. It was also, give or take, quarter of a mile away from where I had started my journey that morning.

I got there before my notes did, and was shunted off to the Day Room of Despond. That’s not its official title, it’s just my description. I’ve been thinking of John Bunyan since reading Mr Standfast, and this seemed as good a time as any to get a reference in.

It’s also a chance to roll out my new literary project. I’m thinking of an historical crime series set in late 17th century England and written in a hard-boiled American style under the pen name Damon Bunyan. Yes, first the temperature comes down, then the puns return…

By the time I was finally called through to the ward I was quite comfortable in my recliner in the day room. The chair in the ward was quite painful to sit as the…er…swelling got in the way. It was also bad for my swollen and infected foot because I couldn’t put it up. Still, no matter, as I would be lying down soon. Apart from one thing…

Either a rule has changed in the last month, or I have put weight on, as I am now officially too fat to lie on an ordinary hospital bed.

It did, at least, allow me to hear this classic gem of English recalcitrance when I asked if I could just lie on the bed for a while.

“It’s more than my job’s worth to let you lie on that bed.”

I’ve never actually heard that in real life before, just in comedy scripts.

Fortunately an enterprising junior doctor, anxious for some hands on experience , found that the bed in the triage room was strong enough for me. He and his senior colleague explained that the abscesses needed draining and that it was probably better to avoid anaesthetic (as in general or spinal), the subtext being that it’s not good for fat people. Local anaesthetic, it appears, does not work well on abscesses. This left one choice, involving just a stiff upper lip and a large measure of macho insouciance.

“The procedure,” said the senior doctor, “is not without discomfort.”

He was correct. It was, I can confirm, an experience that had moments of discomfort.

Part 3 will cover the rest of the stay, the arrival of the bed and the unfortunate occurrence with the cannula.

The Day That Dignity Died

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Well, it looks like I owe you all a number of apologies.

First, I missed a day, which means you had to survive for 24 hours without my daily ray of sunshine. I think it was 111 days, but even if I miscounted it 111 is a good number to remember.

I also misled you by claiming things were under control and getting netter. This turned out to be inaccurate. Looking on the bright side, the further developments turned out to be more interesting (and cringeworthy).

And finally, after leading you into the apologies in a flippant manner, I’m going to apologise in advance for some of the words and details I’m about to use. If you dislike posts with unsavoury details of the interior of my trousers you may wish to pass on this one. I will be as refined as possible, but remember the “as possible”; that’s a long way from the sort of anecdote I’d tell my mother.

Cast your mind back to Wednesday morning. It is bright and clear with the gentle hum of traffic and the muted twitter of urban bird life. All is well in the world and I am getting ready for my pre-operative check. The only fly in the ointment is a slight feeling that I should be feeling better as I am positively crammed with antibiotics.

I was not fated to make that appointment, and half an hour later I was at the A&E department at QMC shouting at the receptionist. It wasn’t that I was annoyed with her, just that they have put up glass security screens and you now need to broadcast embarrassing personal details at high volume to make yourself heard. So much for patient dignity.

They sent me straight to the Urgent Treatment Centre. It’s a two minute stroll for an able-bodied, or a crippling lifetime of toil for a man with a bad foot. Not only that, but it’s not all that urgent.

When I was finally seen (which wasn’t really that long compared to a wait in A&E) the doctor asked me to describe my symptoms. Part way through, she seemed to be looking bemused.

“Is there anything wrong?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “they seem to have booked you in with joint pain.”

“I do have joint pain,” I said, “but that’s not what I told them at reception.”

I distinctly recall what I had told them at reception.You remember such things.

So, once again, I took down my trousers. It’s getting to be automatic and really doesn’t bother me any more. In the last three months I’ve exposed myself to more strangers than the average flasher.

“Yes, you’re right.” said the doctor, “that’s definitely an abcess, in fact it looks like there’s one here too.

She squeezed.

“Eeeek,” I said, trying not to cry,

(To Be Continued…)

Feeling Better Already

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The foot still hurts, but I’m feeling a lot more cheerful and I’m actually starting to think again, even though it’s only a couple of hours from my last post. Julia says I’m also looking pink again after several days of looking grey.

While I was in the surgery this afternoon, despite having a book in my pocket, I just didn’t have the energy to read it. This is much more of an indicator of my wellbeing than a temperature measurement, because, as we saw earlier, I didn’t actually notice I had a temperature.

I’ve been missing my photography recently so I’ve decided to post a few of my favourite photos.

The featured image is one of the mice off a wheatsheaf loaf. I always liked making them, both the loaves and the mice. It’s actually very simple, though I never did get the knack of drying them out properly, so they had a tendency to curl up and go mouldy.

Little and Large!

I couldn’t do without a picture of the Odd Couple. I haven’t been able to visit for a few weeks now, but I’ll be going as soon as I can walk.

Nuthatch at Rufford Abbey

I like Nuthatches, and we had a good day at Rufford on this particular day. In fact we’ve never had a better day photographing birds in the woods at Rufford. However, I live in hope.

Julia at Clumber Park

There are other subjects for photography apart from birds, wives for instance. This is a particularly fine example, and I would probably have starved to death if she hadn’t been here to look after me over the last few weeks.

I forget the name of this one, but it’s quite impressive.

I’m going to miss the garden this year, it was so easy to pop out when the sun shone. Our own garden needs a bit of work after being ignored for years.

Right place, right time

I may have to enhance the rainbow, but it’s still a favourite shot of mine.

More photographs in a day or two.

More Medical Details

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Well, life never loses its capacity for surprise, does it?

As I mentioned yesterday, I have a swollen foot and difficulty in walking. What I didn’t mention was that when I went to bed last night it involved a major effort and a lot of pain. Even after a night spent with the leg elevated, things were not much improved by morning.

In the end I rang the doctor for advice early this afternoon, as I really was feeling quite rough. It’s not a pleasant feeling to think your body is breaking down to the extent that even sitting down upsets your capacity to function normally.

The doctor’s advice was that I should go down to the surgery quite quickly so they could prod me about. I was feeling so weak that I didn’t even argue.

It seems that my self-diagnosis was incorrect. I don’t have a swollen foot due to poor circulation, I have a swollen foot because I have an infection. It seems that as the previous antibiotics sorted out the other infection (in a laudably selective manner) another infection was gathering in my foot. That is the cause of the swelling and the pain. It’s also the reason that it isn’t going down despite me doing all the right things.

I had an interesting temperature when the doctor checked. It was nearly 39 degrees, against a desirable level of 37 – 37.5. He’s quite keen me getting it down, as at 40 it’s officially “life-threatening”, which is, apparently, a bad thing. He couldn’t believe that I hadn’t noticed, but as signs of having mild fever include feeling hungry and thirsty I don’t really know how I’m expected to separate this from my normal state of feeling hungry and thirsty.

We are currently monitoring my temperature with a thermometer that’s left over from my time as an antique dealer. It;s old, but it still works, and my temperature is falling.

I’m happy now.

With any luck I might start to become interesting again.

You never know…

Just Sitting…

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Today’s programme of events was similar to yesterday’s, apart from cutting out the thinking.

I’m still suffering from a swollen foot, the result of spending too much time sitting. Unfortunately, as a result of the pain and swelling, I’m spending a lot of time sitting down to rest it, which makes things worse.

Despite elevation and massage it is refusing to deflate. I’ve considered jabbing it with a knife to drain it but my record of self-treatment, and the last remnants of common sense, indicate that this would be a bad idea.

I’m hoping that after the appointment tomorrow it will be full speed ahead and everything will be OK by the end of next week. Considering what happened last time I went to hospital I’m not convinced.

That’s about all I can come up with for the moment. Apart from my dignity and mobility I seem to have lost my sense of humour and my ability to put words together. This might be a good time to apologise for the limited subject matter and lack of photographs.

All I have left is my desire to post every day.

Time for an antibiotic now. I just dropped it down the side of the chair, so this might involve grumbling and bad language.

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Life after the Care Farm