It sometimes seems like I live at the hospital. I was back at the anti-coagulant clinic again this morning, being stabbed in the fingertips (twice, because the first test didn’t work). They are pleased with the way my blood no longer clots, though I’m not quite so happy with it, as I’ve been bleeding when injecting myself. One morning at the end of last week Julia pointed at my stomach and, horrified,struggled to get some words out. It appeared that the puncture wound from that night’s injection had bled in the night. I had a stain the size of my hand on my pyjamas and one about half the size on the bedding.
I like to think she was worried about me rather than the laundry…
Fortunately I’ve been told to stop injecting. I’ve still got to go back on Friday, but I’m hoping we can do less testing from now on, and do it at the GP. It’s hard even thinking about finding a job when you’re in and out of hospital.
Unfortunately, with the various problems, it’s not likely that I’ll be setting up as a jobbing gardener again and I’ve lost my enthusiasm for antiques. That only leaves taxi driving and pole dancing, the jobs of last resort. Taxi driving requires a clean car and being nice to people, so it clearly isn’t playing to my strengths. As for pole dancing, I fear there may, like hospital beds, be a weight limit.
I suppose I could always apply to be an NHS “mystery customer”, though there’s a limit to the number of catheters I’m prepared to have fitted in the interests of improving customer service.
If anyone can think of a suitable job for a lugubrious, larger than average, middle-aged man please let me know.
The pictures are from the bed curtains at City Hospital. I thought you would prefer them to the alternatives.
