Sick Man Blues

We had a few excursions to A & E over the years we were together.  Once it was on my account, when I cut my hand on a broken glass.  Mostly, it was David who was the patient .  There was the time when he tripped over an uneven paving stone on the first day of our summer leave and broke  a bone in his ankle, only the hospital said it wasn't.   We duly went  on our few days away and walked (or in David's case, limped) all round York.  On our first day back at work, David got a phone call from the hospital - "We've had another look at those x-rays and we think you've broken a bone in your ankle".  When I went to collect him at the end of the day he was in a plaster cast from the knee down.

Our next run-in with the NHS was when he managed to put his kneecap out of joint while turning off the TV.

I should say at this point that he had hyper-motile cartilage in his knee - in other words. the "elastic" holding his kneecap in place was loose.  He'd been watching TV in the bedroom, then after he'd switched the set off he'd bounced onto the bed on his knees - and that did it.  One call to 999 and a trip in the ambulance later, A & E couldn't untangle his elastic and he needed an operation to sort him out.  He was in a leg brace for months.  

Given his history of making a drama out of a crisis, David's cancer surgery went relatively smoothly and the operation site healed  really well.  (I've written elsewhere about the immediate fallout, also known as the great constipation panic of 2019.) Chemotherapy followed.  He was to have one drug via a drip, then tablets to take every day, then a week off.  

After the first couple of days we were back in A & E.  His stomach was very painful.  He rang the helpline number for patients on chemotherapy and they told him to come into A & E.  We'll phone the hospital and let them know to expect you, they said.  I dropped him off at the entrance and then tried to find a parking space.   When I finally managed to park the car and get back to reception, there was no sign of him in the waiting area.  I sat down to wait, and then after a short while he was wheeled past me, eyes closed and stretched out in his best wounded hero pose.  He didn't even twitch when I tried to attract his attention. 

He was eventually returned to me and we spent the rest of the day going for tests, x-rays and eventually finishing up in a cubicle preparatory to be admitted. The following day they sent him home - the cancer nurse had been wondering where he was, reception hadn't passed on the message - and his treatment was subsequently changed.  The new treatment gave less trouble, apart from the time when he came back from a session feeling shaky so decided to go and lie down for a bit.  For reasons best known to himself, he took his glasses off, put them down on the bed, and sat on them.  It did them no good at all.  

Everything was going smoothly on the alternative treatment when the Covid pandemic took hold.  David had been shielding and working from home from the beginning of March and I was working from home from the middle of the month.  At the end of the month he complained that he'd lost his sense of taste- but this was a common side-effect of the treatment.  Then his temperature shot up dramatically, so once again we phoned the help line and once again we were told to come in, to Singleton hospital this time. David was led away for tests (his temperature was back to normal by then) and I was told I could wait.  I was the only person in the waiting room, which was a surreal experience.  We communicated by text message and eventually a nurse came and told me I could sit with him.  

The diagnosis was an infection that had taken hold because his immune  system was suppressed by the treatment.  They kept him in overnight and as an afterthought, gave him a (at the time, rare)  Covid test before sending him Everything was going smoothly on the alternative treatment when the Covid pandemic took hold.  David had been shielding and working from home from the beginning of March and I was working from home from the middle of the month.  At the end of the month he complained that he'd lost his sense of taste- but this was a common side-effect of the treatment.  Then his temperature shot up dramatically, so once again we phoned the help line and once again we were told to come in, to Singleton hospital this time. David was led away for tests (his temperature was back to normal by then) and I was told I could wait.  I was the only person in the waiting room, which was a surreal experience.  We communicated by text message and eventually a nurse came and told me I could sit with him.  The diagnosis was an infection that had taken hold because his immune  system was suppressed by the treatment.  They kept him in overnight and as an afterthought, gave him a (at the time, rare)  Covid test before sending him  home. 

 He was due to have blood tests the following day.  He was feeling fine apart from the lack of sense of taste or smell, but he rang to explain what had happened over the weekend and to check whether or not her should still have the blood tests.  As he didn't have a persistent cough or high fever, they told him to come for the tests.  He was getting ready to go when his phone rang again - the Covid test was positive.  A couple of minutes later and he'd have been on his way to the Chemotherapy unit. We had an anxious couple of weeks, but our symptoms (by now I'd completely lost my sense of smell as well) remained mild!  

One more thing...

Not long after we'd moved in together, David was saying he was happy that we'd be together for the rest of his life.  And then he said, "and when I die, get used to living in a haunted house!"  I pointed out that, as I was fifteen years older than he, the chances were that I'd go first.  He shook his head and said gently, "No, I won't live much beyond 50.  I've always known I wouldn't have a long life."

I told him not to be so bloody melodramatic, and he smiled and dropped the subject.  I found out recently that he'd said something similar to his close friends.  He would have been 51 at the end of January.  My Support Bubble friend came round to keep me company the evening before his birthday.  We were chatting when something caught my eye as it rolled out from underneath the couch.  It was this little packet of sweets.

I don't actually like Love Hearts.  They may have come into the house in a mixed bag, but how they got under the couch and why they should suddenly appear like that is a mystery.  

And finally... 

I posted this picture - a bracelet I engraved with my Silhouette Cameo digital cutter - on my Facebook feed, with the comment that if you could read what it says, you're a huge Trekkie.  There were some logical (and illogical!) guesses, but none of them were right!

It's Vulcan script for the word "T'hy'la", which means, depending on the context "best friend" or "beloved".  As the name "David" means "beloved" I think it's very appropriate, don't you?