Surgical appointment…

Trigger warning – suicide mentioned.


Next Tuesday morning an event that has taken two years of incessant pleading and nagging will finally happen – I get to meet a vascular surgeon who has expressed a willingness, no doubt hedged about by caveats, to possibly amputate my right leg below the knee.

Actually, that crisis was brought about by an unwillingness on the part of my GP to prescribe effective analgesia. In the end I had to go over his head to the senior partner in the practice. By then it had taken a year.

My GP was – probably still is – convinced that a effective dose of morphine would shut down my breathing reflex. True, it might, but might is a universe away from will, yet he treated me as if possibility equalled certainty, and it does not.

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MRSA – The Return . . .

Can Amazon sell me a hooded robe, a brass handbell and a staff with a plaque  bellowing “Unclean!” at the world?

I’ve been telling every bugger who’ll listen, for weeks now, that there is something seriously wrong with my legs, beyond Lymphoedema which, trust me, is bad enough. And back comes the stock, meaningless answer, “You have cellulitis.”

Meaningless because all that means is that I have an as yet unspecified infection.

This morning I got a phone call on my landline – so Continue reading