Appointments, mail and moving.

This week I had an appointment to see the pain physiotherapist at UCLH, London. I have waited months for the appointment and now I've had to cancel it as I'm stuck in hospital in Nottingham. Being honest, I'm not really sure what a pain physio is or what they do so I was looking forward to finding out. This appointment also forms part of the process that you have to go through before you can be signed onto their pain management programme. This is a 12 week programme designed to help patients learn how to live with their pain, accept their pain and work towards a point where you control the pain rather than the other way round. I had bend hoping to join the programme on the September intake but that looks unlikely to happen now.

I had also used the appointment as an excuse to spend a week 'down South' and catch up with friends. The kids had been really looking forward to this and are both angry and upset that we can't go. I had planned a catch up with different people every day, aswell as sleepovers for the kids so I've had the task of messaging everyone to call it all off. I'm just glad I didn't book anything as I had been looking at taking the kids to the theatre in the West End as a treat.

One other problem with not going 'home' is that of my mail. I haven't had chance to sort out mail redirection and so I must have piles and piles of letters there waiting to be read. I have sorted out the important stuff: banks, credit cards and hospital letters are already arriving on the mat in Nottingham but there must be plenty that aren't.

I had also arranged for a removal firm to come and give us a quote to pack and move us. With Hubby's new job and long commute and me nigh on useless there's no way we could pack even if we had the time. A few years ago we had to move out of our house after a leak and the insurance company paid for the packing to be done. Two guys arrived with boxes, bubble wrap and tape and watching them going around the house it was clear they knew what they were doing. They got most of the house packed in an afternoon (although they didn't touch the loft room or the garage) when it would have taken us days (read weeks). I know some people use it as an opportunity to have a clear out but I know what I would be like. I would find old photographs and spend a day looking through them. Or be distracted by the kids baby boxes. And when you're on a tight time scale there just isn't time for sentimentality.

Luckily Bestie is going to meet the removal man and go through my mail for me. I'm sure that a fair chunk of it with be takeaway menus, clothes recycling bags and other junk mail. But what's left will need opening. Hopefully there's no speeding fines or parking tickets that have to be paid within so many days bevause by now we will have to take a second mortgage out to pay them if there is!

To be honest I'm just as gutted about not going home as the kids are. Some people might find this daft but I wanted to spend some time in the house and say goodbye to it. It's been our home for 9 years and I have so many happy memories there. I will have to get Hubby to take us down at least for a night before the sale completes. I can't imagine other people living there, sleeping in our bedrooms, playing in the garden and cooking in my kitchen. I think because we haven't found a house in Nottingham that we're looking forward to moving into it's hard to let go and move on. So much has happened this year and Hubby and I knew it would be difficult but it's much harder than I anticipated. At the moment I feel unsettled because we haven't properly settled in Nottingham and we haven't left Hertfordshire either. And being stuck in hospital with plenty of time to think and mull things over is no good either. Good job I've stumped up for a tv card for the week to take my mind off everything. You can always rely on This Morning and all the other crappy daytime tv programmes to numb your brain cells!

NB x

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

More than just a bag lady

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