Skip to main content

Just call me Dyson!

I was lying in bed watching the TV Iast night when I saw an advert for a Dyson vacuum cleaner and it reminded me of a conversation that I had had during my recent stay in St Marks. 

I was sat in the day room on Fredrick Salmon ward waiting for Hubby to come and pick me up so I could go home. As I sat watching TV people would come and go, some sitting quietly, others obviously looking for some company and conversation. I wasn't too bothered about chatting like I normally would partly because I was tired and also because Tipping Point and then The Chase were on two of my most favourite quiz shows. At home me, Hubby and the kids love to sit around and watch these two programmes; you don't need to be a genius to join in and the kids like to have a go at the multiple choice questions. 

Towards the end of Tipping Point, just as it was getting tense a man walked in. Yes, it does get tense when the jackpot counter is teetering on the edge- laugh all you like, I don't care! Anyway, he must have been in his late 30's and obviously wanted to talk given that from the minute he sat down that's exactly what he did. Non stop. 

Usually I would happily engage in idle chit chat but today I just nodded and gave out the odd noise in the right place. But then he said something that caught my attention. I asked him to repeat himself and he did. I just couldn't stop laughing. Here's what he said:

When I had a Stoma I was like a Henry Hoover because I needed a bag, and now it's been reversed and the bag is gone I'm a Dyson!



It just made me laugh so much that I thought I would share it with you. I've got lots of posts to write (including the one explaining what I was doing on Fredrick Salmon ward in the first place) and I'm trying my best to write them in between being Mum, attempting some housework, feeling dizzy and needing to lie down, feeling sick and needing to lie down, feeling exhausted and needing to lie down and getting ready for Christmas.

NB x 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Light at the end of tunnel

I’m sat writing this blog post in St Marks, the specialist bowel hospital in London. So much has happened in the last few weeks; it’s all been a bit of a whirlwind. But I finally feel like there is some hope at the end of the tunnel. Let me tell you why.  At the beginning of June I was admitted yet again to QMC in Nottingham with huge amounts of pain, my bowels not working properly and just feeling generally unwell. I had only been home a couple of weeks since the admission in May but I had been feeling so rubbish most of my time had been spent in bed. I had tried everything I could to stay at home but the pain had become so bad I was barely able to stand or take a few steps on my own.  I had expected to maybe be in for a week or two to get stronger pain meds and get back on my feet but I ended up being in for almost a month. They put me on morphine injections and ketamine but then stopped them when my heart rate dropped to 30 beats per minute and my breathing to 7 breaths a minute. Th

The light at the end of the tunnel is a train

Last week was a busy and pretty crappy week for me health wise. I had to go and have blood tests done with the nutrition nurses and I had two hospital appointments; one with the gallbladder surgeon in Nottingham and the other with colorectal surgeon at St Marks. I was hoping to have at least one surgery date to write in the diary following these appointments but I came home empty handed on both occasions. Here’s what happened.  I began noticing over the last few weeks that I’ve started feeling really crappy. I’m feel lucky to have been at home for the last 6 months and I have been the most well I have been for years but it felt like things had shifted slightly recently but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. But years of being sick means I know my body and I can tell when something isn’t right. I have been feeling permanently exhausted and having way more bad days than good. I’ve gone back to spending 2, 3 or more consecutive days in bed, unable to do anything but watch tv and sleep.

The wrong size line

I’m on the M1 heading back to Nottingham after a road trip to St Marks to get my line repaired. But this is me, and as usual it wasn’t a smooth ride. More like a bloody shit show. So what happened? Let me tell you… After being admitted to QMC in Nottingham on Sunday with a broken Hickman line I was taken down to Interventional Radiology on Monday afternoon to get my line repaired. Firstly, I couldn’t believe it was happening so quickly and secondly I didn’t want to get too excited because, well it’s me, and usually things don’t go according to plan. And sadly I right to rein in the excitement.  When the doctor came to consent me for the procedure it was for a replacement, not a repair. I assumed he had made a mistake so I told him I was there to get my line repaired and was definitely not there for a new one. He looked at me and said “I hate to be the bearer of bad news…” and that’s a sentence that never bodes well. He then went on to say that they didn’t have any repair kits and that