The best laid plans of mice & men oft go awry, and my plans have gone awry in spectacular fashion this week.
Monday seems so long ago that I can barely recall how I passed the day, though I do know I was at my parents’ house as usual doing the various jobs they line up for me each week.
I also remember my week started with a massive disappointment. I have had my eye on a building plot for several months and last weekend put in my best and final offer, but despite the fact it was a really, really good offer the bastard vendor still rejected it. Alongside the plot is a 4.5 acre field and what he really wants is to sell both the field and the building plot together. It’s been for sale for a year now though and hasn’t sold because no-one wants or can afford the whole shebang, but he still won’t accept offers on just the plot even though the particulars state the plot is available for sale on its own. I don’t know whether to complain to the estate agent that if the vendor won’t sell the plot on its own then they must remove it from the market. It’s at best disingenuous, and at worst illegal, to offer something for sale if you have no intention of actually bloody selling it!
Tuesday night I went to sleep as usual at around 10.30pm and woke at 2.30am feeling weird. My nervous system was going bonkers, I had palpitations, my breathing rate had increased and when I took my blood pressure, which is normally 110/55 when I’m in bed, it was well up at 134/68. These are all signs that my mast cells are dumping histamine and other mediators, but what I couldn’t work out was what on earth had set them off. Nothing unusual had happened that day, I hadn’t eaten anything different to normal and wasn’t under any kind of new stress.
The clue was that the reaction was accompanied by an entire hour of hot flushes, alongside nausea and period type pelvic pain. So I had a look in my diary and although I haven’t had a period in nearly 5 months if I were still following a 28 day menstrual cycle my period would have been due this week. It’s the only thing I can hang the reaction on.
I didn’t get any sleep at all that night, so Wednesday I spent the day feeling like death warmed up. So much so that I didn’t attend my camera club in the evening even though it’s the highlight of my week. Thankfully though I had no more reactions during the day and apart from being woken by a couple of intense hot flushes I slept pretty good that night.
In fact, Thursday I woke feeling the best I have in many months. I was relatively clear headed, actually had some energy (I’d forgotten what that felt like) and was eager to start my day. I took Bertie out as usual in the afternoon for a lovely walk and we were just heading home when my mobile phone rang. It was my Dad to say that Mum had fallen off her stair lift 😥.
I raced through to town to find my Mum in agony. She’d landed on her bottom and her back was killing her, but she’d also banged up against the wall and if she moved her right arm so much as an inch she screamed in pain. As she has osteoporosis it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize she might have broken something.
My parents live literally yards away from their small local hospital, so I initially rang them to ask advice but unfortunately the x-ray department had shut 5 minutes earlier so they told me I had to ring an ambulance, which I’m pleasantly surprised to say arrived within minutes.
To cut a long story short, my mum needed x-rays but we were all reluctant to take her through to the city. It’s a long journey and the hospital is still a huge Covid risk (someone I know went in there 3 weeks ago to have surgery on a broken ankle, caught covid and died – he was 51 years old!). So as a group we decided they would give her painkillers at home and I would take her to the x-ray dept up the street the next morning.
After spending 3 hours in the minor injuries unit on Friday, the upshot is Mum has a stress fracture in her shoulder and faces the next 4-6 weeks in a sling. FFS. Even worse, though, is that we have spent 2 months getting her nausea and bowel issues under control only for this to have set them all off again in spectacular fashion. She feels horribly sick 24/7 and pukes if she tries to eat anything. The doctor gave her a stemetil injection in the hospital and sent her home with some ondansetron (Zofran), and although it’s stopped her physically vomiting it hasn’t touched the nausea and consequently she hasn’t eaten now since Thursday. I have ordered her to drink a small amount of water every 30 minutes, though, otherwise her kidneys are going to pack up altogether.
Why do these things always fucking happen on a weekend? The health centre is shut and it’s a total waste of time getting some locum GP out who doesn’t know her or her history and who will prescribe some temporary and wildly inappropriate generic drug which I can guarantee won’t work. If there were an easy solution to her nausea we would have sodding well found it by now 😕. So I’m hoping she can hang on til tomorrow when I’ll be able to speak to her own GP.
Tomorrow evening I am giving a talk at a Camera Club in Devon. It’s a new talk and my plan was to practice it this week so that I could get the timings right and was fluent. That went out of the fucking window, though, didn’t it and with 24 hours to go I have not practised the talk once. Because of my brain issues I get muddled on a good day and when I’m in a stressful situation it gets much, much worse so to go in front of 50 people totally unprepared is freaking me out no end. When I’m giving a talk I also usually spend the whole day resting so that I’ll have some energy, but of course that’s not going to happen tomorrow is it if I’m trying to get medical help for my Mum.
I sometimes feel that the Universe is conspiring to fuck up every single aspect of my life and there are days where I just want to lie down in the dust and admit defeat. Coping with not only all my medical shit, but my parents’ medical shit and the dog’s medical shit, is fucking exhausting and I don’t have any energy to begin with 😟. Life just recently has not had many positives and the unrelenting stress without any kind of reward is hard to take.
Apologies for ending on such a downer but quite honestly life so far this year has been tough going and my usual optimism and joie de vivre appears to have buggered off alongside my hormones. There are days I would kill for someone to just make me a brew, let alone run me a bath, offer to make dinner, hoover my car or put my bins out – all of which is a long ago distant dream. More than that, though, is the total lack of emotional comfort and support and there are days I’d sell a kidney for a cuddle.
Bertie doesn’t care how hard my days are. As I type this he is pushing his nose against my arm demanding a tummy rub and at 9am will unceremoniously remind me it’s time for walkies by sitting in front of me and woofing til I move. It’s come to something when my dog has a better life than I do, though he’s unaware that in my brain fogged stupor on Wednesday I cleaned his teeth with Vagisil. As my bestie said, it could have been worse – I could have smeared Verbac doggie toothpaste on my lady garden and had a gleaming white vag visible from space 😆.