It's now been eighteen weeks since I started to self inject the anticoagulants; I'm still feeling like crap-only this time, like Covid crap. I was too unwell to actually sit and write in December. The blood clots, chest pain and breathlessness-and severe tiredness-meant that I really couldn't go out anywhere. I'd suddenly have to stop and grab my chest-not that doing so would make any difference. I was totally miserable and I was feeling very sorry for myself. Add to all this that everyone around me seemed to come down with a super virus that left the victims sick as can be for at least two weeks. Hmmm...
But-like the seasons (not that we have any over here), everything changes. The very severe and arctic cold weather, the torrential rains, the violent windstorms- they all kept going on and on and on-along with my symptoms. I knew that it couldn't last forever. Either I would die or I would get better. Obviously, I didn't die. So I consider myself lucky.
I'm not in nearly as much pain as I was eighteen weeks ago-or even eight weeks ago. I still get breathless, sometimes too often-but the anticoagulants are most definitely working. Now I have to fight to get a CT chest scan to see if I can get off sticking needles in my abdomen. That stuff hurts!
And there's more. I flunked a PCR test two weeks ago-so there I was, still walking at the crack of 6am, in the dark, complete with mask (and crutch), determined that nothing was going to stop me from getting outside and getting what passes for air. I am very fortunate (once again) that I had the variant, and it wasn't nearly as life threatening as the Covid-19 of four years ago. Four years! I didn't think that I would be affected by Covid four years ago, but I certainly was-and so were you, probably.
While things were beginning to go quiet-or, at least, quieter- now I have an update that will make you roll your eyes in disbelief. I still shake my head, thinking that there are some absolutely insane people out there. We know this, since you've read about a few of them. But this one is a corker.
Sharps bins are not to be left with the pharmacy, or the doctor's surgery, or even the hospital. Since the pandemic, the NHS has contracted a company to send their drivers to collect full ones and deliver empty, brand new ones. So-six weeks ago I shut and locked the full sharps bin (30 needles and syringes), bagged it, and left a large note on the bag, which I had to place outside the building. The collection could be anytime between 7am and 4pm, and someone has to let the driver into the building. I leave well before seven to go to the hospital for infusions-so I left instructions with the company to collect it outside. Okay? Fine. I know that you got this. But the neighbor downstairs-who has always been a bit of a total nutter-decided that the bin was outside her window, and maybe it was a bomb. That's what I said: a bomb. So she rang the landlord, who rang me, and I
couldn't stop laughing. I then had to tell everyone else on the ward what was so funny-since everyone was listening anyway. There was really nothing else to do, and I wasn't exactly quiet about it.
Now-two weeks ago I had another full bin, arranged for the collection, and asked the landlord's rep-called Sharon-to ring Florence (we all call her Big Flo: about the size of the late Cyril Smith but without a functioning brain) to tell her that another sharps bin would be out the next day-and please don't touch it, because it isn't a bomb. What do you think happened?
She didn't touch it. She and her carer stole it. This moron and her hired moron stole a full and locked sharps bin. They took it, it took two days for me to get it back-and that is because I blew a fuse, started emailing everyone who had the authority to actually do something to get it back, and finally called the police. Ringing the police did the trick. Sarah Green Fried, the coordinator (lazy bastard that she has always been) must have been told by her boss to handle it. She finally emailed me to say that they found the bin, and that it was all an honest misunderstanding. Seriously. Not only is Sarah a lazy idiot (another one who is the size of Cyril Smith because all she does is sit in her office and eat), but she really believed that I'm stupid enough to fall for "misunderstanding", rather than the truth: this was a deliberate and malicious act that could have caused-who knows what would have happened if children had found the bin, smashed it open, and discovered thirty used syringes and needles? Or a drug user, who would most likely think it was Christmas?
The outcome? Big Flo was told off by the council's antisocial behaviour team, and was informed that if it happened a second time, there would be repercussions that she would not like. There's a difference between some total asshole who enjoys causing trouble for the neighbors-and someone whose actions could endanger the lives of the public. Actions have consequences.
I'll know soon enough if history is going to repeat itself. The stolen sharps bin and a second full bin are out for delivery-today. That will be interesting, to say the least. Fingers crossed. But I spent two weeks trying to stop myself from thinking the worst case scenario. Whatever happens, none of this can be my fault. According to the police, the blame (or responsibility) lies with the thieves. Even though Big Flo is clearly missing her marbles (perhaps born without them. Who knows?), the parties who stole the bin will be the ones who get busted.
Maybe the next time I see her I should ask her if she likes prison food?
I'll keep you posted. Now it's time for a very strong coffee!!
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