For those of you wondering what the hell is going on with my blog, I share your frustration.
The simple answer is that I’ve been in hospital – again** – with pneumonia and MRSA (though as far as I can see any opportunistic respiratory bug tends to get tagged as pneumonia these days, and it seems that any MRSA cure has to be taken on faith – take these for a week – there, you’re fine!
**That was on the morning of August 27, when I had a scheduled appointment at the Lymphoedema clinic but, instead, was hauled off unconscious to A&E, a state in which I remained until the following day and which is still unexplained. (I tend to get pneumonia the way other people get colds – whatever I had, this wasn’t it.)
I was scooped up, unconscious, apparently wearing just a puke-and-blood stained T-shirt – no electronics, not even a pen – I have NEVER been so isolated since, well, everyone else was too.
Tuesday rolled on with me mostly slipping in and out of consciousness while I was severely impaled on a variety of catheters (god knows how many, they were still checking they’d left none behind mere seconds before I was taken to the discharge lounge), mostly for i-v antibiotics and steroids, which left me covered in bruises like Yakuza tattoos and, two weeks on, still painful.
A few attempts to interview my virtual corpse proved utterly futile and, eventually, I was just left alone.
Tuesday dawned and, with it, burgeoning awareness, as it turned out I was wearing a giant adult diaper. All this time I was in a side room (standard with diarrhoea) just 8 short steps from the toilet, a journey I’d apparently been making on autopilot every 10-15 minutes. That was when they slapped the Red Band of Shame on my wrist, told me I had MRSA, and ran away (literally – until I demanded an explanation).
Then – a bit unfairly I thought, given my physical and mental states – they stuck me with a dementia test (turns out I’d pitched up in the stroke ward as they had the only bed). I passed – hell, you’d have to be seriously compromised not to – but I was mortified when I couldn’t dredge up Cameron’s name! Still, he is a nonentity, so it’s understandable. And the OT was impressed with my ability to tell almost the exact time of day at will, but it’s something a lot of members of the outdoor community (former member, in my case), can do if pressed.
And so, life drifted along aimlessly for a week, during which I mostly contemplated the cost of replacing my missing dentures and glasses (they turned out to be at home, luckily).
By September 2 I was sick of the place (still very ill but, unable to eat without dentures, I was visibly losing weight and needed to get home to be able to eat properly). I kept myself going by guzzling “Ensure Plus” meal replacements for much of the time I was there, since no-one cared overmuch whether I ate or not (with even less interest in why), and grabbing every drop of milk that came my way.
It had become clear very quickly, that day, that beds were at a premium, so I offered to exchange my bed for a sack of drugs and a ride home. I did that at 09.30 – I eventually left at 17.15.
It’s now September 11 and I still feel dreadful. I’ve finished my MRSA drug (Doxycycline), but have no confidence that it’s been effective. The only plus side is that I’ve regained some of the weight I lost (lost 6kg, regained 1kg, which is fine as I was starting to get fat again).
And that’s it for now.
Those of you follow my Twitterfeed might well have read a couple of versions of this, displaying varying degrees of temporal confusion (which lingered rather a long time). This version is accurate in that respect, at least, though I don’t feel any better healthwise. Indeed, it’s taken an absurdly long time to write these few words.
Of course, words by the thousand drifted through my head while in hospital but, without the means to record them, are mostly gone forever. Some, I hope, can be resurrected before they’re too far gone
Watch this space…