Threes

This has been a horrible, horrible week.

Over the past ten days I’ve nearly drowned (Blacked out in the water at the pool, fished out still-unconscious by lifeguard, couldn’t get right leg or lower spine to support me, had to get ferried home in the car by Dearest), nearly gone under an HGV (See the long post about the bike) and on Friday, after my dog had spent half an hour screaming every time he tried to move, requiring him to go to the vet for an emergency consultation, I was bluntly told that he probably had terminal bone cancer. From that point on I’d been so worried about him that I barely stopped crying all weekend, and haven’t wanted to talk to anyone about him, for fear of jinxing him.

Well, today (Tuesday) I found out that he didn’t- Despite all the howling and painful noises, he’s just got a soft tissue injury from climbing over the wall to my downhill neighbour’s house too many times. This is a massive weight off my mind, and has basically blasted the horror of the last week away into nothingness, since now I’m just so relieved that he’s all right. It’s no exaggeration to say he’s my best friend. He’s certainly the only person I’d ever get a matching tattoo with (Within a year of getting him, I had the racing number that’s stamped in his ear tattooed onto the back of my knee, at about the same height as he is).

Better than that, the vet today said that he was in remarkably good shape for his age, and not showing any of the signs of decrepitude that she’d have expected.

So here’s to things looking up.

Hopefully, the problems of last week will now be repaired in reverse order – My bike will be returned to me, preferably in one piece, and then by the end of the week I should be swimming again, even though I now kind of don’t want to because it’s just too embarrassing. I’ve also just made some enquiries about getting fabric for winter clothes (I think I deserve some fully-lined wool trousers) and have bought another parcel of norgies (A norwegian-style heavyweight shirt from the army-navy shop). And the fire is lit, so at least the living room is warm – it was down to six degrees in the bedroom last night, which is about the limit of my tolerance before I start wearing a nightshirt and piling on the wooly blankets and extra sheepskins.

So far, the judicious use of Best Friend’s old light therapy unit, along with the sun simulator generously bought for me by a forum friend, along with absolute comfort literature (The Harry Potter books, Discworld and Sergei Lukyanenko’s Night Watch series all do an amazing job of making Autumn not seem like a terrifying spiral of dizzying golden light that ends in an anxiety attack…) seem to be keeping the worst of the seasonal stuff at bay, so other than the horrible sense of anticipation and the clinical knowledge that I’m reacting poorly to stress as compared to in the middle of summer, I’m doing all right. Another friend is fighting the seasons by going for a very long walk in the hills, and I’m both glittering with envy and plotting how I can bolt off to find somewhere remote and green and rainy in the next few weeks.

Physically, I’ve been too wound-up to even understand that I have a body very much since Thursday. I imagine that tomorrow I’ll wake up and find that I’ve got a lot of dislocations that I’d not noticed, or at least that I’ve got not-all-that-mysterious sore muscles and knackered joints. But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, everything is fine.

Thunderfuck

I am a very sickly Zebra today.

The day before the General Election was a long one.

Physio first. Very kind, very honest, community physio – Asked me all the right questions, was incredibly sympathetic, spotted my popped hip from the far side of the room and through a tracksuit, knew what EDS was and had treated EDS patients before when he worked for rheumatic physio… And admitted straight away that I was too complicated a case, and he couldn’t help me under the remit of the community physio. He also volunteered to chew the ear off my last physio at CA, the same as Dr D did, so that man is going to have the most in-demand scalp in the county. Sixteen-plus years of ongoing pain, with the hypermobility complications, needed more time and effort and specialist knowledge than he could swot up on, so back to the hospital for me. He was what I’d call a “proper physio” – A grey-haired ex-rugby forward, who enthused about keeping fit and said that I was doing all the right things by aiming for ten kilometres in the pool per week,  assured me that missing that goal wasn’t the end of the world, and that even trying was better than most people would do, and said that he wished me the best of luck, regretted that we couldn’t work together, and that if anyone was ever going to recover completely, it’d be someone like me.

I’m not sure if that’s just a platitude that everyone says to every patient, but a hell of a lot of knowledgeable people have said it to me, so it makes me feel a lot happier and more encouraged than otherwise.

I actually felt encouraged enough that I went for a swim. I’m continuing my strategy of taking neither crutches nor morphine to the pool, so that I can’t overwork myself in the opiate hubris zone and end up collapsing on the way home. 500m in about 15 minutes, with the limiting factor not being myself, but the fact that the pool was bedlam – Seven to a lane, one of the ropes completely slack, Medium lane full of slow people, Fast lane a combination of pissbreathers (Those people who swim in such close formation that they must be right in eachother’s stream if someone suddenly feels the urge), people doing deadly serious drills (whom I didn’t want to interrupt), one incredibly elderly water-polo player (who was covered in what looked like WW2-era forces tattoos with whom I had a lovely chat about both water polo and the history of the local pool) and me (he of the incredibly erratic split time, even more erratic accel/decel out of turns, and tendency to stop in the middle of the lane every few dozen lengths to reassemble).

Deciding that I was better off taking the small prize rather than knackering myself in a suboptimal pool, I called the 500 a win, and went home.

Then the GP, which went really well – Dr L, someone I’d not met before. Nice, genuinely approachable, said to give her a week to do her reading, then come back and get a referral. Next appointment on the 20th.

Upon returning home from the GP, I found that Dog had eaten a full bar of Bournville. I’d been gone for literally twenty minutes, at most. Panic stations immediately manned, I dragged him off to the vet to get an injection of abomorphine (a REALLY potent emetic), then sat stroking his back and making generally reassuring noises as he vociferously chundered all over the vets’ car park. Whole bar accounted for – Seriously, it looked and smelled like a patissier with a grudge had iced the whole yard in cheap chocolate fondant – We went back home and sat in the kitchen, him looking terribly sorry for himself and me terrified that he was going to have some theobromide still in his system and have a heart attack. He’s a very old man, in greyhound years (He’ll be ten on the 4th of July) so this wasn’t a stupid fear.

Did not sleep well that night – Every whuffle and twitch from Dog woke me up in a panic.

Next day was the General Election – Tasks do do; Get to the vet to sign my insurance paperwork (To keep that bar of Bournville from being the most expensive that I’d ever purchased), and go and do some democracy. The local polling station is at the end of the road, so I thought I’d do one round-trip; Up to the vet, then back down to the church hall, then home. After the previous day, and the night earlier in the week where I’d been awake for something like 40-odd hours having a bit of a manic episode, I was anxious as fuck for a number of reasons. So, I took along Dog in his semi-official capacity as my assistance beast. Not a joke – It’s all there in my psych notes that due to fairly nasty PTSD I sometimes need to have Dog with me in order to function like a normal human being, and most people are fine with this (He’s lazy unto the point of appearing well-behaved, quiet, doesn’t shed too much, and doesn’t leave my side. The lead is basically for show – I’ve led him through a field of lambs with the only tether being a piece of wool from my wrist to his collar, and it didn’t even go taut once.)

I knew in advance that anyone is legally allowed to take their dog into a polling station (There’s no chance of my dog being a paid shill, swaying my hand to vote for his candidate instead of mine) so I walked in through the newly-opened disabled entrance with him at heel. Only to have his lead taken out of my hands (No asking, just taken) with the explanation of “The other attendant is scared of dogs”. I started to panic, and as I do when on the verge of having a massive PTSD meltdown I saw the path diverge – One path said “Deck the shitheel that’s taken your dog”, the other said “Become compliant and get your dog back”. Thankfully, since I have no choice in which road I go down, my proverbial BIOS sent me to the DOS of total basic obedience, rather than the obscure Linux distro of uncontrollable violence. I’m pretty sure that at this point I went to the bench, took my papers, marked them both appropriately, then got Dog back, since the next thing I remember particularly clearly is sitting outside the polling station with my face in Dog’s shoulder, shaking like the proverbial shitting greyhound.

I made a mental note to go back and correct the attendant (You don’t just *take* a man’s dog, you ask if you *may* take it. Not all service dogs wear the big yellow harnesses. Not everyone’s dog is comfortable being handled by strangers, so you could well get bitten. I can only assume that if a blind person came in avec-chien, then the dog-hating attendant would have to leave the bench. Assume that as the priority one solution next time) but didn’t have the strength to do it. Instead, I just went home and tried not to think about the election much. I failed – Slept from about 2am to 4am, woke up to a world of nightmare.

So, yesterday, the day after a Tory government of only borderline legitimacy took power (That’s a tiny minority, and that’s even with the constituency boundaries largely favouring them), I woke up feeling like shit.

At first, I took the pain in my abdomen to be just the continued saga of this fucking coil. By about 13.00, I was concerned enough that I told Dearest and Best Friend that I might be going to hospital. And then the gastric distress started, and I shelved that idea. Somewhat like a bloke with lymphatic filariasis localised to his cock, first I was pleased, then a bit concerned, then incredibly concerned, then I wished I would just die. For context – First I thought that I was just reasonably disimpacting after what had been a horrible week, then I thought that I had a spot of diarrhoea, probably from the severely dodgy out-of-date popcorn and absinthe I’d had for tea the day before, then I thought that I might be having an adverse reaction to the doxycyclin… By 3am, when I was literally passing nothing but bile, stomach acid and water, every ten minutes, uncontrollably, with so little warning that I couldn’t leave the bathroom, I didn’t care what it was, I just wished I was dead. It hurt (Hydrochloric acid failing to neutralise as it passes through the digestive tract will do that), I was getting cramps from the rapidly-changing pressure and bloodflow in my already-tortured abdomen, I was trying to vomit but nothing was coming up, I was utterly knackered and dehydrated.

Oh, and did I mention that this is on top of terrifying chest pain and heart palpitations after trying to ward off a weather-induced migraine with an ill-advised Sumatriptan at 17.00? I was so ill with that (unable to move, curled up in bed, sweating, shaking, struggling to breathe, vision going blue and grey from lack of air) that Dearest ended up cancelling his night out to look after me. I’ve had bad reactions to Suma/Imigran before, but never this bad. Suffice to say, since I genuinely thought I was going to die, I am not taking it again.

So, yes, by 3am I wasn’t sure if it was going to be the heart attack or the dehydration that would kill me first. Drowning myself in the bath was a close third.

I must have got to sleep with the aid of a lot of morphine (Good for both the pain and for stopping the bowel from moving) and diazepam (good for slowing the heart rate and relaxing the intercostals, letting me do a few breathing exercises) because according to Dearest I was singing the Russian national anthem very loudly at about 4am, but he thought it would be unethical to wake me up since it’d taken so much effort for me to get to sleep in the first place.

I woke up at about five, had a brief conversation with Dearest (Reassuring him that I was all right, and not actually about to drive a military parade of rockets on floats down Briggate), and have returned to my nest on the chaise longue.

Today has infinite chances of being better than yesterday. In a bit, I’m going to see if I can drink anything without feeling as if my heart is being stepped on, have another shower, ring NHS Direct to see if I should be worried (And to ask whether I can just stop taking the doxycyclin, since another week of this would literally kill me since I can’t eat or drink), and bizarrely hope for a migraine (The surefire sign that I’ve metabolised the Imigran out of my system and that the chest pains will stop).

So, yeah, my awesome Saturday plans are “Have a migraine” and “Try to drink some ginger beer.”

Then, Sunday is the cricket, Earnshaw willing.