Tag Archives: antibiotics

Marmalade Hoverfly

A Slightly Longer Post

Sorry, I was slightly inaccurate when posting last night  – it’s cellulitis rather than phlebitis. As soon as they mentioned it at the doctor (I finally felt strong enough to leave the house)  I remembered it was cellulitis I’d had before. That’s why it doesn’t seem as dramatic as the link I didn’t post.

Julia looked into it after I was diagnosed and she has been giving me a good talking too. It seems that fi you are in the shaking/delirium stage you should get your self to hospital. This is clearly guidance from someone who has never had it. When you are in that stage you can’t string coherent sentence or thought together. Now we know what to do we will make sure we ring an ambulance and, I’m sure, be told that it isn’t serious enough to warrant that.

I now have antibiotics and am in that stage of feeling worse before I get better. Fortunately I am already o lot better than I was. You can tell this from the blog posts. They are hardly masterpieces of finely crafted prose, but compared to the communication of a few days ago I feel like Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde rolled into one.

I’m still making a lot more mistakes than usual with the typing, but am hoping I am correcting most of them as I go along.

My early texts to the boss and Julia a couple of days ago looked like they had been typed by a five year old wearing mittens.

Fortunately |I am resilient, so I will bounce back.

It took me two and a half hours to get my pills this afternoon, which was twenty minutes with the doctor and two hours and ten minutes wrapped up in queues and listening to (yet more) excuses from the pharmacy. Meanwhile, I had plenty of time to sit and view my future – fawn clothes, shoes with Velcro straps and jogging bottoms. I had intended being a natty dresser in old age but it seems fate is even conspiring to take that away from me.


Part 3 – Free at Last!

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.











More Medical Details

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…

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.


The Epitome of Relaxation

I’ve just been to the doctor, which is not something to be undertaken lightly after my recent experiences. Fortunately I emerged with only mild embarrassment and a prescription for antibiotics and ointment.

I still look forwards to the day when I am allowed to keep my trousers on. This was, unfortunately, not that day.

My reward was a nice quiet sit-down in the pharmacy followed by test of willpower (swallowing a large uncoated pill which I suspect of having veterinary origins).

I then sat down to watch a number of obnoxious people competing to be judged as best value B&B. I can understand why people would want to go on such a programme to boost their business. I can’t, on the other hand, see why anyone would want to go on national TV to reveal themselves as the reincarnation of Lucretia Borgia.

Juli just returned from the hairdresser looking gorgeous. She has just changed because her last one, where she’d been going for 10 years, rang her to say they had closed down. Fortunately a new one has just opened round the corner, and it seems to be good. They will even shave my head for £6, which isn’t bad when you consider the contortions and safety aspects of doing it myself.

She just cooked beans on toast, with a garnish of sausage and bacon, plus a few mushrooms and some bubble and squeak (you have to remember the veg!).

Now I’m watching The Saint. it’s in colour and features Yootha Joyce and Tony Booth as Russian agents.

Soon it will be time to read a bit more, shout at some idiot quiz contestants and drink more tea.

Wife, tea, TV.

Does it get any better than this?