And finally-it's been exactly six weeks since I was released from my enforced incarceration into the hospital-and on Dementia Central, no less. I'm so very lucky that I got out with my hearing, not to mention my sanity.
I've had a seriously nasty time since I got a reprieve from the three screaming women. I'm quite certain that they forgot all about me in less than an hour after I left. I didn't forget about them, though. They stayed with me for awhile. I've never had to deal with anyone with dementia before, and I think that any carers or family are incredibly heroic. I couldn't do it. Within a few hours of listening to the rants, the screaming, the swearing (some of that came from me, truthfully), and the woman across from me taking her poo and smearing it all over her face (someone should have told her that it isn't a face mask), I was ready to throttle all of them. I can only take kindness and empathy so far...
I was so thrilled to get out of there that the first thing I did when I got in the door was make a very strong coffee. Bliss. Then a shower, as if I could wash off the preceding five days of extreme torture. I contacted everyone just to say that I was still alive.
I did arrange for tests for dementia. All I saw for days before my "prison sentence" were ads for dementia, dementia was everywhere. It wasn't until I saw my GP that I discovered that it wasn't some insidious plot to tell me something I didn't want to know; it was Dementia Awareness Month, so there was advertising everywhere. Thank goodness.
I took some tests and made the momentous discovery that I don't have any form of dementia and that I've still got all my marbles-in the right place and functioning perfectly. Forgetting things is normal-unless you forget everything, in which case - go to the doctor. And my 45 year old friend complained that she suffers from senior moments. I had to correct her: they aren't senior moments, they're pre-senior moments. She's only 45, Her brain isn't going anywhere.
But-it all gets worse, and everything went to Hell. I've been self-injecting the blood thinners for six weeks, and I was told by someone over the phone-over the phone, would you believe! = that I need to continue on the anticoagulants for a minimum of three months-possibly six months. Apparently it takes at least three months for the blood clots in my lungs to dissolve and disappear. That is what is written-and, of course, what is written must be true. Except when it isn't. And their protocols are BS anyway. Who lets a patient self-inject anticoagulants without checking to see if the medicine is working, and how well it is working, and the possibility that I might be absolutely fine in three months, not six? But the nurse told me-very rudely, in fact-that nobody will do anything because they're adhering to the guidelines. I questioned that-and her rudeness-and called her Nurse Ratched. Lucky for me that she wasn't a fan of the film, wasn't it?
So I got to work. I started emailing. And if you've been with me for awhile, you know what happens when I start emailing. I don't stop until I get a satisfactory answer. So I emailed the immunologist and told her that there is absolutely no cooperation from the haematology team, and that some very nasty nurse I call Nurse Ratched refused to let me speak to the haematologist. I said that thirteen and a half years ago some absolutely incompetent doctors told me that gentamicin was safe and that they would be "watching me". I reminded her that they did such a sterling job that they nearly killed me; instead of killing me, they crippled me. And I said that I wasn't going to allow that to happen again. She emailed back, and told me not to worry, that she was going to email the haematology consultant.
The short version (or, short-ish version) is that my immunologist will be watching and I will have a phone call from the haematologist in December (before Christmas). And, if necessary, the immunology team will order a CT scan to see exactly what's going on in my lungs. I did point out that if anyone finds gold or diamonds when they scan me-they can't have them. But they're more than welcome to the blood clots. Amen to that.
The biggest problem now is the challenge to walk and stay upright. Anticoagulants have side effects: headaches, severe weakness and exhaustion, and profound dizziness. As you know, I'm dizzy enough already. So that's been a challenge. Then, of course, and saving the worst for last, is the tendency to bruise. I gave myself two big bruises after injections, but I've been doing this for six weeks, and I did a better job than the nurses did in five days. They gave me some massive bruises. They must have been in a hurry.
My legs are so bruised that I look like I've been kicked by a horse (I've never been kicked by a horse, but if I had, it would probably look like my legs look now). I also bump into things-especially with the added dizziness, so every once in awhile I'll turn around and bump into something that would normally not bother me-but it would bruise (and hurt).
I have to admit that I'm so lucky that I got to the doctor in time to be diagnosed with blood clots. Apparently, if I'd waited much longer it would have been too late. So I'm sitting here and wondering that if I was a cat, I'd have gone through at least seven of my nine lives. Perhaps even eight.
One of my very close friends said that I'm just always so unlucky. Actually, that isn't true. I'm extremely lucky. Every time I've had a very close call-and there have been way to many of those to think about-I somehow managed to survive. How much longer is anyone's guess. When I can stop bumping into things long enough to just sit and think, I'll have to decide what I want to do when all the injections are over and I'm fighting fit again. Or should I say when I'm fit again?
I'm gearing up for Thanksgiving. I certainly have a lot to be thankful for. Plus-close your eyes if you're vegetarian- there will be turkey. And stuffing. Sweet potatoes. Cranberry sauce (homemade, too). I even might splash out on a bit of wine. I've got loads at home, but it's so old it can probably be used as very expensive vinegar. But I'll write as soon as anything is happening.
Why is it that when a man asserts himself and stands up and fights for himself, he is looked on as a hero, someone who is admired for his forcefulness-but when a woman stands up for herself, asserts herself, won't back down until she gets results, she's called a bitch? Huh. There's something for you to think about.
