My take on a loathed dish – Italian Mince…

Dominating the menu at APH was something called Italian Mince – so much so that they must have bought in the buggerdly stuff by the tonne.

While I failed to detect the slightest Italian influence (it was basically mince with a hint of tomato), I did get a feel for what they were trying – and failing – to do. The problem was one of cowardice in the face of robust flavours, resulting in something way too close to spag bol – but without the Spag! Precious little Bol too.

Firstly, it needs good meat. Not too good, a proportion of

The rather limited joys of Pleural Aspiration…

Before going on with this, someone asked me, vis-à-vis what I’ve written here about APH, if nothing went right – as if I make this shit up for entertainment! The answer is no, very little went right, OK?

The big thing – and I’m more than happy to give credit where it’s due – is that APH saved my life. That’s a fact. I’m still dying – that’s a fact, too, there is simply too much wrong with me for it to be fixable, not least because no-one knows exactly what’s gone wrong, which just leaves treating the symptoms.

The theory is that my

Samsung Galaxy S3

If you’re going into hospital, a smartphone is really essential, as the surprising number of people with dumb phones found out to their cost.

So, sunk deep into whatever

This is me – right here, right now…

In the post Ethics? Ha! (April 13), I detailed how I was offered a deal – stay off Twitter and get the best care available, or continue to piss people off (i.e. tell the truth about APH), and well, not get the best available care.

So yes, briefly I sold out, before coming to my senses, withdrawing my consent to invasive testing, and threatening to discharge myself.

Anyway, a large part of the initial conversation was the doc explaining in detail what was wrong with me (way too much), and my chances of survival (way too

My perception of my support assessment…

With the best will in the world, I cannot see how my embryonic support package is going to work out.

I understand that they need to see exactly what I can do for myself but, right now, that’s as close to bugger all as it’s possible to get.

And let’s not lose sight of the fact that if my consultant is right, I’m still dying – and at the moment I’m fighting a drugged-up holding action, with no suggestion of any real recovery on the horizon. I might be home, but physically and emotionally, I’m still in crisis.

A blog post of sorts…

OK, not the one I intended, as you’ll see, and a bit rambling, in an attempt to get up to date.

I’ve lived in a small flat, usually close to my monitor screen, for some 17 years and I’ve noticed that, over the years, if I was able to go out, the world would be blurred until my eyes adjusted to a horizon that was more than a few feet away.

On the day I was hauled off to hospital, I was dismayed – way too sick to feel more than that – to find that I was effectively blind out beyond a couple of yards. Just shapes and colours – no detail.

Over the weeks in hospital, with my cheery view of the incinerator plant, hedged about by the most drear winter’s-end landscape you can imagine (think Game of Thrones, without the charm!), my eyes did their thing and refocused.

Back at home, now, and can’t focus on keyboard or screen. Aaaargh!

Corner People . . .

I have become a Corner Person.

One of us to each corner of a four-bedder.

Gasping for breath, sucking oxygen, hoovering up drugs.

Corner People – trying not to die . . .

Ethics? Ha!

Last week my consultant dropped in, without his usual team, to lay some bad news on me and make me an  offer.

The bad news – no matter what – I’m probably dying from the complications of a failing heart.

The offer – don’t badmouth APH on Twitter – even if justified, and I’d get the best medical care, the alternative being palliative care. Unethical? Yep.