Today I’m reinventing my Harissa recipe as I think a return to the cardiology ward might be lurking in my future. In fact, I’d put money on it, as this problem isn’t going to go away.** Above all else, other than survival, I need protection from its hideous, saltless, food.
**I won’t say I’m not still scared of dying – the only people who are honestly not are the young who, for the most part, are decades away from having to confront their own mortality. Me? Resigned, I suppose. And scared. Not of death, per se – that’s inescapable (but if it happens it would be nice to go to bed and not wake up), but dying of pulmonary oedema, as I almost did last week, is a terribly hard way to go.
I am not allowed salt.
This is a crime against nature – everyone needs salt.
It’s particularly cruel as many of us with Addison’s Disease crave salt more than usual. What hasn’t been explained is whether this craving is driven by an actual need – I must find out. (I did, see*** at the end.)
In hospital last week, in the heart ward while the pulmonology tossers tried to claim me and the heart people – in whose hands my recovery resided and in whose ward I was – just quietly got on with their thing (I’d have preferred a more hands-on approach, like consulting me before prescribing a drug, Ramipril, I can’t take).
That my heart really is a serious problem is reflected in the fact that the pulmo pillocks have screwed up my meds while announcing no further treatment or support is needed, while the heart people have consigned me to the care of the Heart Failure Nurse service, who are scheduled to put in their first appearance on Thursday. I have no idea how this works yet – whether they will routinely visit to monitor me, in much the same way as the Community Nurses, or whether I call them at need (though, really, if I do need help I need to be in hospital).