Being inside my head right now is like when we used to travel down to the South of France in a five seater SAAB, but when we were slightly older. Clo, Max and myself would squish in the back seats (Max forced in the middle because we still tried the ‘your legs are shorter’. Even when he was 14, we knew it was Clo who had the shorter legs), trying to ignore bits of the three weeks worth of holiday packing digging into the back of our heads, and at our feet. It was a logistical nightmare and mega uncomfortable but you got through the 12 hour overnight journey because at the end of it was a holiday.
All of the crap we insisted on packing in the car is how much space this hospital dramz is taking up inside my head. Us five represents the rest of my life. I’m trying to look forward, make plans and crack on with life but if you scratch the surface you’ll probably watch me melt.
Sorry, that was a rubbish analogy! And I really don’t want to sound moany and mopey because I’m not, I’m just in a bit of a weird place right now. I’m all fine and dandy and then I get an appointment letter through the post, or have another hospital trip, or my hand turns blue and I worry. Because it is still blue. The procedure hasn’t worked. But don’t worry it’s not all hopeless!
I’m not going to beat around the bush, last Friday’s procedure was horrible. I forgot that just because I’ve had it done before doesn’t mean I am immune to the pain. And where I should have been on the table for around 45minutes, I was there for 2hours. My veins on my left arm just don’t want to play ball any more and after five attempts to get a cannula in they ended up putting another one of those operation sheets you see on Holby City on my left arm too and using an ultrasound, local anaesthetic and a micro plunger (it’s not called that at all but me and dad couldn’t remember for shit what they told us it was called so we renamed it and say it with confidence in the hope people believe us) to get access. This was so they could give me a sedative for the angioplasty.
Last time I had one of these, it hurt but I kinda kept slipping in and out of consciousness because I hadn’t eaten for four days so the sedative worked like a treat. This time the sedative hit me AFTER the procedure. Typical.
Also it was lol because after the X-ray bit, the Interventional Radiology team (who remembered me from before) brought down my consultant to look at the results. I could see him over my feet behind the glass, both of my arms were pinned down so I couldn’t wave or call out so I did this really lame thing of laying flat on my back but rolling my eyes all the way down so I could see my feet and then I kind of raised my eyebrows in acknowledgement. I’m surprised they didn’t think I was having a fit. (It’s hard to describe so if you would like a demonstration of what I looked like, just ask when you next see me and I’ll be more than happy to oblige.)
Being a patient on the table isn’t very sociable. In fact you’re just a specimen aren’t you? Thank god for the nurses who remember that you’re a person. Needless to say, my consultant didn’t acknowledge me. So I was rejected too. Awkward.
Anyways, I’m all fine now. I went back to work on Monday. My arms are speckled with all of the green bruises from the needles but I’ve heard polka dot is totally in this season.
My last moan I promise: this whole hospital dramz is exhausting. Like I said before, I’m ALWAYS thinking about it. I’m obsessed with checking the colour of my hand, I’m knackered of trying to plan things but also with the knowledge that I might have another hospital trip. Im trying to balance work with hospital life, making sure I’m still getting paid. I’m constantly yo-yoing with my emotions at every hospital trip – there’s a long wait between each appointment before we can decide what the next step is. It’s time consuming! And I’m super excited to get rid of the blueness but also a bit sad at the thought of not having it any more. It’s my party trick.
Also it’s sinking in what the ‘rest of your life’ really means. I’ve started to look at it like diabetes or something. Like I know it’s there, I have to be aware of it, I have to take important meds for it, but it won’t stop me from doing much. Except the bloods consultant told me I won’t be able to skydive and I genuinely got a bit tearful. Not that I skydive everyday but I’m suddenly one of those people who have limits and that sucks.
Now I really don’t mean to cause offence because this really isn’t a bad thing, it’s an observation: it’s exhausting reassuring everyone else that I’m fine. Sometimes I just want to say ‘nope, I’m not okay. I’m actually really nervous about going to hospital and I hurt like a mother, it really effing sucks and I CAN’T SKYDIVE.’ But I don’t want to worry all of you lovely people, or for you to be upset for me, or worry about me, because I’m doing superduper okay. It’s just that sometimes I can’t help but think it’s all just so crappy.
HOWEVER, a mega benefit of said blue situation is that I have my own theme tune. I’ve taken to walking up to people and annoyingly shoving my purpley index in people’s faces singing ‘blue finger’ to the tune of Shirley Bassey’s Goldfinger. I like to see their alarm on their faces as I saunter off humming the rest of the song. They think I’m leaving because I’m an allusive woman. It’s actually because I haven’t come up with the next line to the song…
If you fancy sponsoring Mum, Sam and myself for the Moonwalk on Saturday night, you can do HERE. Thanks if you already have done!
One other thing: PALESTINE NEXT WEEK. To be continued…