The Art of Remaining Upright

I had a few close calls this last week-but I managed not to fall on my head, which was, for me, an amazing achievement. I kept telling friends that I should invest in a helmet and an American footballer's uniform-lots of padding, just in case. That didn't go down well with the Brits, who just didn't get it. No surprises there.

I managed to go to Tai Chi on Tuesday. I was nervous about it, and very nearly turned around and came back. But I decided that I was extra dizzy and worried because I was frightened, and not because of the concussion. So I forced myself to go. Embarrassed? Yes, I was: not everyone just stands there one moment and keels over backwards the next. And this was in a class of more than forty people, so I felt like an absolute prat. A prat with a bloody concussion.

I saw the instructor, said that I would do the warm up exercises, and then carry on in the beginners' class-and if I felt dizzy I would just sit down and watch. That, I think, made him feel a bit more secure. And that was what I did: the warm up exercises, but gently, and the beginners' class, and in the middle of the class I had to sit down. It's really amazing how much I have forgotten, too. In the intermediate class I was busy following other people-and the ones who knew the most were also the tallest, so that didn't work out so well. I would need stilts to be able to see what they were doing. Happily, I wasn't the only one who got confused.

At the end of the class, the instructor-who was visibly relieved at the fact that I hadn't fallen over and cracked my head on the floor-came over to me and asked how I felt. I told him that I nearly hadn't come to class, that I was actually frightened. He replied that he was frightened, too. A few more weeks of staying upright in class-and out of class, for that matter-and things will change for the better. Hopefully.

I did get some very, very upsetting news when I went along to the hospital for my infusions. Now, for those of you who are new, I get immunoglobulin (antibody) replacement every two weeks (intravenously). This has been going on since I discovered that I have a hereditary condition known as CVID (the Great God Google does a really good job here-as does Wikipedia, who got it spot on and surprised me no end). I don't have the genes that provide a functioning immune system. One out of every 50,000 people is born with this condition. It isn't contagious. I can only pass it on to my child-so I'm glad I prefer dogs to humans. No child to have to suffer.

Yes, the news...the Royal London (remember them, they're the people who crippled me-and very nearly killed me) immunology team (run by the two incompetent cripplers, Hilary Longhurst and Sofia Grigoriadou) decided that too many people were coming into the unit, and the doctors and nurses were overloaded with work. You'd think that the cripplers were loving it, since it meant a lot more money for them, and more people to try to kill-but no, they wanted a smaller workload. So what they decided to do was have specialist nurses come to treat patients at home. Since the NHS is in a state of disrepair (to put it extremely mildly!), this would save money: fewer staff in the ward, less of a traffic jam...

Now my hospital is preparing to do the same thing: specialist nurses who will come to patients' homes to administer medication. There are people in the immunology unit who have poorly functioning immune systems (or no immune systems) who had them destroyed by chemotherapy, all manner of drugs, all kinds of adult onset diseases- and they will soon be treated at home. I've been told that they want me to do the same.

My response? When Hell freezes over. I will not be doing intravenous anything to myself. Ever. There would be a lot of swearing and blood loss, I can tell you. Plus, this means that the nurse would either have to stay with me for four hours, or keep coming back to change bottles of medicine-and then finish up. No thank you.

I was very, very clear: if that is what they want to do, I will either change hospitals or stop having antibody replacement (not such a good idea, because that is the quickest way to kill me-the only quicker way to kill me is to put me in the care of Longhurst and Grigoriadou).

So, that brings us up to date. The marvelous NHS was a good idea in its' time-but now, it is just falling apart. There are drugs that will help people with all kinds of serious diseases, but they are too expensive. I wonder when the lives of people became less important than the amount of money in doctors' bank accounts.

Iceland is looking better and better every day...I wonder if they have Starbucks over there. And Kettle Chips. I would move tomorrow. Or, maybe, now...

Greetings from the exploding head

A week makes a huge difference when it comes to a head injury-well, it's made somewhat of a difference, anyway. Last week I was in excruciating, screaming, head-exploding pain-enough to make me sit and hold my head in my hands and sob uncontrollably. Anyone walking past my door probably thought I was being murdered.

Did I remember my homeopathic remedy of choice-arnica, which I've been using for bruising and any other injuries for years and years? No, I did not. I think that when you are suffering from any kind of injury, those things just disappear from your consciousness. Perhaps it's then okay to have a couple of days of dripping with self-pity. Drip, drip, drip-I did that, then got so bored, I got up and risked another fall by going outside and walking. Carefully.

One neighbour saw me clearly in distress-so I just said I fell and concussed myself. She went on to remind me that some actress had a bad fall while skiing, and died of a brain haemorrhage. Then she went on to say-as if that wasn't quite enough-that a couple of years ago, her neighbour fell and broke her hip, and that triggered Alzheimer's Disease, so she soon had to be carted off, never to be seen or heard from again.

That's what I really treasure: dynamic, positive thinking from neighbors who are determined to scare the living crap out of you. Wow-whatever floats their boat, I guess. Did I let it all scare me (which was clearly my neighbor's intention)? Of course not. I just rolled my eyes-which nearly made me fall over-and started walking along my usual route. You're doing too much with a head injury, she called after me. Thanks for the concern, I said, and just kept going.

I'm supposed to be laid back for a couple of weeks, checking that the symptoms don't get worse. If I get any more laid back, it's very possible that I will ripen and rot.

I'm like the Energizer bunny: I'll keep going until I run out of batteries. I've sat on my ass for over a week. That's enough. But I must be getting better, even though it's very slow going. I've been back to Starbucks today (I did miss my Starbucks), and I've hit the Kettle Chips really hard. Food? Who needs food when you've got Kettle Chips and Starbucks? I'm pretty sure that there will be one from several food groups in both. Or-I'll just make it up, and blame it all on the concussion.

I could be blaming anything and everything on the concussion for-years. What a great excuse...

The Curious Case of the Exploding Head

This week has been proof (again) that things can change in an instant. Example: a world-class, head-thumping concussion. I sound like a drama queen-but I'm feeling like one right now.

Last Monday I had my colonoscopy/gastroscopy with loads of tissues taken for biopsy (five, if you really want to know.). So they told me as I was leaving the hospital not to drive or sign contracts for twenty-four hours. But-did they say not to do any exercises? No, they did not. Duh-the patient is supposed to figure that out for herself, right? Not exactly.

Less than a day after the procedures (complete with sedation, I have to add, so I don't seem totally retarded), I decided - in my infinite wisdom, which deserted me completely last Tuesday - that I would go along to Tai Chi because a bit of gentle exercise would probably help me feel better. Double duh. Never let it be said that I don't do my share of dumb things, and this was really a classic.

I was just standing there, minding my own business, listening to the instructor, when -bang!! I keeled over backwards, out cold, and smacked my head (and everything else) on the hard floor. I don't remember any of it, except that I was carted off in an ambulance to the hospital, where I spent the next five and a half hours being poked, prodded, blood-letted, and scanned all over the place. Amazingly, I didn't break any bones, but I did end up with bruises on top of bruises: enough to cause me to be fairly unable to move, stand, walk, and so on. I was also informed that I was lucky that I didn't fracture my skull, but I have a concussion, so I have to be vigilant for the next few weeks, just to see if the side effects increase. Who knew that I have such a hard head?

So I've got the mother of all concussions. Last week I thought that my head was going to explode. If you've ever had a concussion, you know exactly how I felt. Now it's a week later, and I'm still being a drama queen- but only when I'm by myself. I feel more than a bit stupid for even considering doing anything the day after surgery. That'll teach me to think before I act.

So I actually did follow directions this week; I rested, I was careful, my balance paid a huge price for my silliness, and there was a great deal of swearing and gnashing of teeth as I tried not to fall over. It wasn't a very pleasant week. But-I was lucky that the blackout happened indoors, and not out in traffic. That would have been very messy, not to mention exceedingly painful. And possibly fatal.

So now I'm starting to walk as much as I can again, and force myself not to be afraid of another blackout. Last Friday I went to see my vestibular physiotherapist, having first emailed her about what happened. We spoke, I did some exercises, and she feels that the whole thing was a result of the surgery and sedation, nothing else would have caused it. I spoke with my team-and my GP-and they all agree. Apparently I'm in excellent shape-except for the concussion and all the bruising, of course.

Lesson learned. I felt well enough last night to demolish an entire bag of Kettle Chips (salt and balsamic vinegar-yum), and I felt disgusting afterwards (too much food. Way too much food at one sitting). That tells me that I must be on the mend. Either that, or all the bloody scans have given me brain cancer.

Really-they scan you, they x-ray you, they scan you again-if the fall doesn't kill you, the radiation will.

In A&E (the emergency room), the doctors are all junior doctors-like interns, with only limited experience and training. So they look at you, go back to their registrar who's in charge, and there's this big kerfuffle over what to do next. They kept telling me that they think it's a heart problem. I said that I had every test known to mankind last year, and my heart is perfectly normal. Then they said: lungs. No, I said, it isn't lungs. Vestibular? They asked. No, I said, it isn't vestibular. Well, how do you know all this information? The one little doctor asked, finally getting annoyed. I told him the truth: I was a professor of anatomy and physiology.

That was the end of that conversation. And here I am, a week later, on the mend. But I think I ruined the little doctor's day...