Well, I’m back home.
Pretty scared if I’m honest. I came way too close to dying this time. Not my opinion, two docs told me on separate occasions – and while I hate being in hospital, it can be, and was, a life-saver.
I’m glad to be out of there – no bloody peace day or night – but the absence of that support is what’s scary. The amount of support I received, via Twitter, was immensely moving, though. Thank you all.
Some of you might recall that my GP is paranoid about Oramorph, and is convinced that if he prescribes a therapeutic 10ml dose I’ll die horribly (bullshit, of course, as we got past that problem and, hey, I haven’t – the recent event isn’t related to that – I’ll get to it but the cause was seriously bizarre). And this morning – after endless arguing, every day, trying to get the ward staff to prescribe the right dose (not easy when breathing is somewhat of a luxury) – the ward Sister accidentally gave me a double dose, 20ml. I chugged it, had second thoughts, looked at the measure and thought – in quick succession – Oops! – Yay!
And here’s the thing – it did me no harm at all.
Nor, sadly and mysteriously, did it affect the pain of my ever-growing ulcer one iota.
Got home this evening, in excruciating pain, and far too early had a (normal-sized), shot of my own stock. That worked. Clearly, then, the efficacy of Oramorph is linked to the level already in my body, which means taking it at 4-hourly intervals would be better than 6. So, I can take 4 doses over 16 hours rather than over 24 – who’d know?
And finally, I was told that my GP had been in contact with the hospital to instruct them to titrate down my Oramorph dose which, as he hadn’t even seen me, never mind examined me, he had absolutely no right to do, nor should the hospital be acting on a phone call from a person who could actually be anybody. Words will be had as soon as I’m well enough. If, in fact, it’s true.