I'm sat on the fawn sofa, the olive green lamp is throwing a subtle light along the back wall of the lounge and through the gaps in the mental cactus. The dog is asleep in her bed, dreaming of running in the park by the looks of it. The rain is bouncing rhythmically on the window panes and I can hear the wind blowing through the trees. It's a strangely comforting and beautiful sound.
Eight weeks ago, I was rushed into hospital with severe abdominal pains and vomiting. I have quite a high pain threshold and already take a pretty decent dose of morphine each day, so for the pain to break through to the point where I was in tears and rather scared, it must have been bad.
I live a stones throw from a major hospital, but I was in no fit state to walk over so I did the only thing I could think of and called my Mum (yes, I'm 42 now but I don't think you ever grow out of wanting your Mum or Dad when you are scared or upset). I was reluctant to call for an ambulance as I'd heard them all morning and knew they were insanely busy. As I was waiting for my Mum, I received a phone call from the delivery men who were delivering my bedroom furniture (I've recently moved home). I don't know what must have gone through his head when he heard my voice. They arrived to find me semi collapsed at the front door and crying. They offered to call an ambulance but I told them that my Mum was on her way. Within two minutes she appeared. They asked her if she needed any help whilst we waited for the ambulance, and looked somewhat relieved when she said we'd be fine.
The 999 controller asked my Mum if there was any way she could get me over to the hospital as I live so close, but she explained the state I was in and the fact I am disabled so there was no way she could have got me to the car. She said she would send someone as soon as possible, but if it got any worse to call back. Approximately 20 minutes later, it had got worse so we called again. The lady asked to speak to me so that she could assess how soon I'd need an ambulance. By this time, I was at the end of my tether and just wanted someone to help, but I know it's not her fault that the system is pushed to its limits so I remained polite.
The ambulance crew eventually arrived. Two incredibly handsome Angels in Green appeared with a bag and cylinder of entonox, took a brief synopsis of what had happened and took me to the ambulance. With the aid of the entonox and some very filthy conversation, the pain was easing. After a 5-10 minute wait in the corridor, we were shown to a cubicle and off they went. A couple of hours of being poked, prodded, stabbed with needles, drained of blood and given a dose of IV morphine, I was transferred to a ward. As there were no beds available on the surgical unit, I became a "sleep out". The staff on the non surgical ward were fabulous! The surgeon came to see me and told me that I needed an operation and they'd fit me in as soon as possible. Five days later, I was chatting with the Gas Man, asking for some Pimms with my Midazolam and having a gastroscopy. I can remember looking at the screen thinking "that doesn't look right at all". The gentleman doing the scope said he didn't like the look of some bits so would take some extra biopsies. I don't remember much more after that until I woke up on the ward.
The surgeon came back to see me the next morning and said they would keep me in for a few more days, but he would see me in 3 weeks time for the results.
Three weeks turned into five, so I called the hospital to find out what the delay was. Cut a long story short, I'd got "lost in the system". I was told that there was a clinic appointment free today and I'd be sent a letter - I've still not had the letter, but there is a copy in my notes.
So, 8 weeks later, after no more than 3 hours sleep, I sat in the waiting room with my Mum. We were called into the surgeons office and although I was calm and composed on the outside, inside I was a hysterical mess. Swan Syndrome I call it. He asked how things had been, any problems etc so I told him I could eat very little apart from bland stuff such as boiled rice, plain pasta, boiled chicken or fish and that I was losing weight at a rate of knots. He looked a bit pensive and then started telling me what he planned to do next. Inside I was screaming "never mind that, just give me the bloody biopsy results". I couldn't wait any longer so i just blurted it out. He smiled at me and said "they were clear of anything nasty".
Eight weeks of sleepless nights, telling those close to me I'm fine, putting on a brave face, pain, fear, apprehension, putting off plans that I had made, not wanting anyone to get close to me (including a very nice man whom I've kept at arms length) manifested itself in tears that, I hate to admit, still haven't really stopped.
What made them worse was the number of people that sent lovely messages. Some of them were from people I know, some from people I "know" from twitter and a lot from people I don't know. I find myself overwhelmed with the kindness of strangers. In a world where there is so much hostility, hate and unfriendliness, there is a beacon of light, love and hope. I wish I could bottle what these people have given me and made me feel this evening. I'd give it out free to every human being on the planet!
So to those who have sent me these messages, I thank you from the bottom of my heart! Thank you doesn't seem enough, but it's all I can say.
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