Monday, December 04, 2006
Hi all.
First a big thanks to all of you who sent me a card, it was quite overwhelming... and some caused very painful chuckles! Thank you for that! Anyway, back from the pitts, boys and girls!
As we say in Belgium "nothing as hard to kill as weeds".
Almost 2 months ago I departed from Blighty for a 6 day visit to the old home country (la Belgique) with a stinking cold I couldn't shed. Same night I was shoved in a scanner, X-rayed until I lit up in the dark, attached to several drips and stuffed in a most uncomfortable bed after a home visiting doc sent me to A&E. Under utmost protests: "I'm only here for 6 days and not planning to spend them in a bleeding hospital" I met my torturers of the coming weeks, the pneumothorax specialists. (diagnose: pneumonia with extreme complications or empyema for short).
One of them promptly wanted to put a drain in my back to syphon off the fluid (painful!…) with no result. Two days of extreme antibiotics later, the delectable doctor tried again, same result.
Scans, X-rays, prodding and poking for a week and the learned buggers (they multiplied, I was interestingly rare) started mentioning "operation". By then my resistance had melted away as I was too far gone for protests.
The morning of the 25th of October 2006 I got my dashing outfit: a half-open gown with my bottom hanging out (when I still had a bottom!) and a pair of lovely white self upholding stockings (against thrombosis…) – Gwen Stefani, eat your heart out! I was wheeled off in my bed, waving to the grinning nurses on the department; the swine! They knew, oh yes, they knew...
Then it all went rather fast.
Into theatre; introduction to the anaesthetist – aha, I remember thinking: the drug dealer, and about bloody time as well – administering of epidural (ouch, flippin' ouch) and after that… oblivion.
That afternoon, I woke in a morphine daze only to mention utmost rubbish to my loving family visiting me in intensive care - it was the drugs talking, your honour, good stuff too!
Now when I say I'm squeamish, I MEAN squeamish!
And there I was, attached to a gazillion gadgets, drips and drains. All quietly bleeping away; until I moved and then there was always one thing that went off in an alarmingly ear piercing ( and migraine inducing) tweet. AAAAAAAAArgh! Surely I was going to see that light at the end of that tunnel at any minute shortly........
But no, 6 days of intensive care and 2 projectile vomit inducing migraines later, they removed one of my lung drains (and some other attachments you don't want to know about) and prepared me to go back to my normal room on the thoracic ward.
Hi all.
First a big thanks to all of you who sent me a card, it was quite overwhelming... and some caused very painful chuckles! Thank you for that! Anyway, back from the pitts, boys and girls!
As we say in Belgium "nothing as hard to kill as weeds".
Almost 2 months ago I departed from Blighty for a 6 day visit to the old home country (la Belgique) with a stinking cold I couldn't shed. Same night I was shoved in a scanner, X-rayed until I lit up in the dark, attached to several drips and stuffed in a most uncomfortable bed after a home visiting doc sent me to A&E. Under utmost protests: "I'm only here for 6 days and not planning to spend them in a bleeding hospital" I met my torturers of the coming weeks, the pneumothorax specialists. (diagnose: pneumonia with extreme complications or empyema for short).
One of them promptly wanted to put a drain in my back to syphon off the fluid (painful!…) with no result. Two days of extreme antibiotics later, the delectable doctor tried again, same result.
Scans, X-rays, prodding and poking for a week and the learned buggers (they multiplied, I was interestingly rare) started mentioning "operation". By then my resistance had melted away as I was too far gone for protests.
The morning of the 25th of October 2006 I got my dashing outfit: a half-open gown with my bottom hanging out (when I still had a bottom!) and a pair of lovely white self upholding stockings (against thrombosis…) – Gwen Stefani, eat your heart out! I was wheeled off in my bed, waving to the grinning nurses on the department; the swine! They knew, oh yes, they knew...
Then it all went rather fast.
Into theatre; introduction to the anaesthetist – aha, I remember thinking: the drug dealer, and about bloody time as well – administering of epidural (ouch, flippin' ouch) and after that… oblivion.
That afternoon, I woke in a morphine daze only to mention utmost rubbish to my loving family visiting me in intensive care - it was the drugs talking, your honour, good stuff too!
Now when I say I'm squeamish, I MEAN squeamish!And there I was, attached to a gazillion gadgets, drips and drains. All quietly bleeping away; until I moved and then there was always one thing that went off in an alarmingly ear piercing ( and migraine inducing) tweet. AAAAAAAAArgh! Surely I was going to see that light at the end of that tunnel at any minute shortly........
But no, 6 days of intensive care and 2 projectile vomit inducing migraines later, they removed one of my lung drains (and some other attachments you don't want to know about) and prepared me to go back to my normal room on the thoracic ward.
Once back there, the whole nursing staff were taking the mickey "Not bad for one who was going to leave after 1 day" and "Can we see your scar? BLOODY HELL!" Told you they were swine!
More about the scar later, I promise.
Bit by bit, I was freed from my attachments (second lung drain, epidural, central line) - I was very sorry to let go of the self administering drug pump when the epidural was removed but, hey, the fun had to end somewhere...
I was also allowed to ditch the lovely white stockings. Then, half of the staples were removed and the wires of the drain holes, and a day later the other half of the staples. That day I walked out in great style, size zero (skeletal) on high heeled black fuck me boots; terribly slowly and breathless.
Now let me tell you, I feel extremely cheated!
There wasn't a handsome nurse in sight, let alone a bachelor doctor. Where is that bloody George Clooney when you need a bed bath ...
And to top it all, I now HAVE SEEN MY SCAR!!!
I kid you not: 30 cm ( a foot, for you non-metric people) around my left side!!!!!!
Yes, I know, it will be hidden by a nice bra but what about that romantic moment in future?
No more lights on for this girl, as I look like the magic trick gone wrong (you know: delectable assistant, box, big saw…)!
And what about my gorgeous dresses with bare back?
Charity shop or cardigan? Now there's a question I ask you!
More about the scar later, I promise.
Bit by bit, I was freed from my attachments (second lung drain, epidural, central line) - I was very sorry to let go of the self administering drug pump when the epidural was removed but, hey, the fun had to end somewhere...
I was also allowed to ditch the lovely white stockings. Then, half of the staples were removed and the wires of the drain holes, and a day later the other half of the staples. That day I walked out in great style, size zero (skeletal) on high heeled black fuck me boots; terribly slowly and breathless.
Now let me tell you, I feel extremely cheated!
There wasn't a handsome nurse in sight, let alone a bachelor doctor. Where is that bloody George Clooney when you need a bed bath ...
And to top it all, I now HAVE SEEN MY SCAR!!!
I kid you not: 30 cm ( a foot, for you non-metric people) around my left side!!!!!!
Yes, I know, it will be hidden by a nice bra but what about that romantic moment in future?
No more lights on for this girl, as I look like the magic trick gone wrong (you know: delectable assistant, box, big saw…)!
And what about my gorgeous dresses with bare back?
Charity shop or cardigan? Now there's a question I ask you!
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