Be aware – gross ulcer photo below.
Just had a conversation with my GP. He’s been in touch with the vascular doc, who has said – this bloody obsession again – that compression is the only way forward. I told him, when he asked if I’d be willing to try compression and – these are my exact words – I said “I’ll suck it and see.” That’s all. No promises beyond that, just a willingness to try it and see what happened.
I can’t, in all honesty, say I was overly impressed with the frozen soup veg I tried last time – a bit lacking in flavour. OK in an emergency, I suppose, but not if I can wield a knife. The chunkier casserole version seemed to consist mainly of slices from carrots big enough to choke a horse and one-inch cubes of swede. The carrots I could live with – if they’d had any flavour – but not bloody great lumps of swede which, perversely, had too much flavour and were horribly coarse. I wouldn’t use this version again at all.
So, back to doing it the hard way which, the pain in my leg notwithstanding (definitely no pun!), I rather enjoy.
A “View from Bed 3” post under the new rules.
Last night I reduced my Zomorph (modified-release morphine), from 90mg to 60, to see if it had any effect on my pulmonary oedema (P.O. from here on), attacks. These are happening most nights now, though obviously not as severely as that which put me in hospital (the fact that some nights it doesn’t happen could give me a false negative, but I can’t think of another way).
I took a very carefully measured – as opposed to just approximately sloshed – dose of Oramorph at bedtime, just 10ml which causes no problems.
Tired – and afraid – of the overnight crises, I reduced my morphine tonight from 90mg to 60mg, just in case my GP was right and it was suppressing my breathing, only to find my ability to breathe was vastly more compromised than usual before I ever got to bed, which bodes ill for the rest of the night.
And I got a hell of a lot more pain for my trouble too.
This really can’t go on.
I promised myself I’d be extremely circumspect when it came to criticising consultants, but I’ve just read the report from the cardiologist I saw a few weeks ago and it’s absolutely riddled with errors.
And there’s no excuse. I spent days typing up everything I needed to say to him (most of which has already been posted here), so to avoid repetition, I’ll just give you one example.
He starts by saying “He has been seeing our Heart Failure Specialist Nurse…”. Not true. I saw her once, for about an hour.
He also says I was using a wheelchair “because he feels a bit weak”. A complete fabrication – I neither said nor implied anything of the sort.
So, Cameron seizes the Thatcher moment, and Parliament magically finds the money to prosecute a war that is arguably none of our concern because, whatever the Islamic State is doing, this is a Middle Eastern, primarily Muslim v. Muslim, conflict. The Western victims, while savagely tragic on a personal level, pale into insignificance when weighed against the IS-inflicted, Muslim death toll (along with all the other groups, regardless of religion, that these rabid psychopaths see as “enemies”).
After a week without at attack of this most egregious of respiratory illnesses (damn near killed me back in August and it is not a good way to go – trust me on that), I’m not happy at all to see it back this morning.
It kicked in at around 03.30 as usual, but failed to progress as it usually does, I stuck it until 06.30, watching with dismay as my sputum pot was filling up, then got the hell out of my bedroom and came in here, to the living room.
Many years ago, before I even knew I was a Spoonie – hell, before I’d even heard of Spoonies – I made a major lifestyle change.
I lived alone, then as now, and it was so easy just to get out a clean plate, and cutlery, that eventually I was overwhelmed by washing up. So I though sod this, kept one set of cutlery, and another of crockery, and consigned the rest to a box in a dark corner. This had the advantage that the washing up never piled up, and it imposed the discipline of having to wash up or not eat.
NB: Under my new rules I consider the following to be safe.
Like most people with COPD I’m extremely prone to respiratory infections. Normally, I tackle these myself as NICE, while paying lip service to GOLD, strenuously refuses to allow GPs to prescribe antibiotics in sufficient strength and volume to comply with its needs. So I buy my own.
However, a couple of months ago I had an infection which refused to respond when treated with my normal Amoxycillin, so I faxed my GP and asked for Doxycycline and, a major miracle, actually got it. This week I accidentally ordered codeine linctus. It’s not due yet and I don’t need it. Since I’ve been taking Oramorph I’ve needed codeine linctus only rarely – when it’s a case of take it or cough until I puke or pass out. Normally it would have been crossed out and a snotty note sent with the rest of my meds but I got it without the slightest quibble. This spirit of co-operation is very unusual and suggests he knows something about my condition that I don’t. Worrying.
“Smartphones are not designed to be put in pockets” says Chris Green, principal technology analyst at the advisory service Davies Murphy Group, jumping to Apple’s defence.
Seriously? Then what are they supposed to do with them?