Tag Archives: Anaemia

Well That’s A Relief; Now What?

6 Oct
Peripheral blood film of a patient with iron d...

Image via Wikipedia

 

Good news, sort of: there is no sign of cancer in the Hub (though they didn’t look at his soul; I don’t think they have a camera for that).  They biopsied a polyp but they tell us that’s routine.  However, if no news is good news, it’s still no news; there’s no explanation yet for the Hub’s anaemia.  He will be called back for a discussion at some point and he just has to keep taking the iron tablets. 

It was a long day yesterday.  The Hub was to be given a sedative and had to be accompanied home afterwards; I don’t drive so we had to get a taxi to the hospital: two buses and a fair bit of walking are two buses and a fair bit of walking too much for the Hub at the moment.  He’s not breathing well – a combination of the anaemia and a chest infection; his pallor gives the word ‘grey’ a bad name; he is in more pain than usual because he had to come off the anti-inflammatories; and he has the ongoing CFS/ME, of course.  He is one sorry little puppy.  He’s so unwell, we haven’t had an argument in days; never thought there’d be a day when I missed his pig-headed shouty view of the world; but I do. 

 

Still, enough about him.  I had a horrible day too, but nobody wipes my brow.  While I waited for him, I had to read two books and the paper, drink tea, eat crisps and chocolate and sit on a chair deemed too cruel for use by the Spanish Inquisition.  That was a long three-and-a-half-hours.  Well, it would have been, if I hadn’t had two books, the paper and lots of snacks to keep me going.  Why don’t hospitals add a library or a tv room or something for family & friends?  Even a comfortable chair would help.  But no, it’s all spend the money on the patients; look after the patients; make the patients comfortable while they wait two hours for their procedure. 

We arrived twenty minutes early, so that bit was our fault.  They took him in early and made him wait over two hours, so that was their fault.  They prodded and questioned before the Big Probe and gave him paper boxers to wear under a girly gown.  You check in your dignity along with your valuables when you go into hospital; luckily for the Hub, he’s used to that, appearing in my blog every day.  He said they pumped him full of air and he lay in a ward at some point, having a fart-off with the other testees.  He swears he did one four minutes-long.  At last I have competition!  

 

Pardon my vulgarity; I was not brought up that way, as Rizzo would say that Sandra Dee would say.  Of Irish Catholic descent, I come from what my mother called the capital of Ireland, Liverpool; and we are a refined lot.  We always say ‘please’ when we ask for your wallet and jewellery; and we never steal your tyres without resting your car on even piles of bricks.   

 

It must be the Mancunian rubbing off on me after all these years, though I don’t think it does take years: Tarik the taxi driver, who told us he hasn’t been here that long, had a fund of horror stories to share about his life in Levenshulme; most of which seemed to involve being on his break and eating pizzas and kebabs while he watched young men knock out their drug addict girlfriends and youths insult grannies and generally behave in an anti-social but all-too Mancunian manner. 

The taxi driver going home was Stockport-born and bred, but he talked just as much.  So much, in fact, that he forgot to turn on his meter until we were halfway home, and had to ask us how much he should charge.  I gave him a decent tip.  I wouldn’t have normally, what with being Scouse and knowing the value of a penny; but my husband had just been told he was cancer-free and I was in the mood to celebrate.  Now, if I can just rile the Hub so he yells at me, we’ll all be happy. 

* 

The prompt for this week’s We Write Poems is What’s for dinner?  I haven’t been in the mood to write poetry this week, so I dug up some old ones on the same theme. 

A Recipe For Torture 

Starter: 

Too many cooks
Not enough broth
 

Main Course: 

Four planes
Dead thousands
One paralysed nation
 

Stir until hatred reaches a peak. 

Desserts: 

One concrete cell
One bucket of water
Two bare feet
A dash of electricity
 

Throw together and watch carefully
as your suspect surges the walls.
Look on in satisfaction.
Extract information.
Discard waste.
 

Please note: No guarantees can be given that
following this recipe will produce the desired results.
 

  

* 

Recipe for Contentment  

Ingredients: food,
good film, children home, husband,
dog.  Mix well.  Relax.
 

* 

How To Bake A Cake  

With care and good scales
or you’ll fail.
You’ll burn it;
flop it; scrape
it off the
plate and pop
it in the bin,
   to your children’s accompanying wails.
 

  

Everyone’s Sick

3 Oct
It's only a head cold

Image by Neil Boyd via Flickr

 

Spud has a nasty head cold.  So nasty, it kept him in bed all day yesterday so he couldn’t do the promised tidy of his bedroom; lucky for him he had a brand new PS3 game to pass the time.  But his cold was not so nasty that he couldn’t manage to go to the match in the pouring rain today.  Aren’t head colds peculiar? 

The Hub is more sick than usual: no energy; no blood; no voice.  A visit to the hospital on Tuesday will see cameras being inserted at either end to find the cause of his anaemia. His glands are swollen and he’s concerned they might not get the throat camera down.  He reckons they’ll have to take the bum camera and just keep going. 

Tory Boy has his usual bout of Fresher’s Flu.  He spends the first two weeks of every academic year seriously sorry for himself, and with good reason: he has been more ill these last two years than when he was under my dotage.  I mean doting care.  I think students should be allowed to take their mothers to university for the first couple of weeks, to provide the chicken soup and Lemsip.  I find mixing the two and forcing the resultant concoction on a child ensures they won’t bother me unless they really are at death’s door or having their appendix gouged out.  Happily, Tory Girl will be on hand from tomorrow; she can tell him to pull himself together as well as I can. 

I hardly ever get sick.  I can’t: someone has to go out to buy the soup. 

  

  

  

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