Blokey only had to spend one night in hospital. He’s been told that his Blood Baby could take up to three months to go away. I don’t really understand it, but the surgeon has seen it before (allegedly) and is confident that, although unsightly and annoying, it isn’t dangerous and will go away of its own accord.
Last October I bought Blokey an afternoon out in London (I think it’s called The Rock n’ Roll Tour, visiting places such as Abbey Road and cruising past the houses of famous musicians) for our anniversary and we were booked to go on it next Tuesday. I’ve just cancelled it; he won’t enjoy the experience with his Blood Baby, and getting in and out of a minbus all afternoon will be uncomfortable. But Hannah (her real name) was lovely and said we could just ring her up and let her know when we want to rebook. This time last year we should have been on holiday in a luxury lodge in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales, complete with jacuzzi and hot tub. Yep, we had to cancel that too.
Anyways, he’s perky(-er). He’s driven himself to dialysis this morning (the hospital forgot to arrange transport, but he thinks he’ll be okay) and I shall spend the next few weeks worrying about blood clots because they’ve taken him off the warfarin until his Blood Baby buggers off. The last time they took him off warfarin he developed blood clots and ended up back in hospital within days.
There’s something quite humbling about hospitals though. The chap in the bed next to Blokey had been in for three months with an infection on his foot which can’t be fixed and may result in amputation. He’d gone blind due to diabetes just last year, and is now facing dialysis with a kidley function of 11%. He isn’t much older than us, has a wife and three little girls and – until he went blind – had a good job as a Bank Manager. He’d had to spend four months in hospital earlier in the year, including Christmas and New Year.
The next time Blokey says to me, Why do all these things only happen to me? I shall remind him of Neil (his real name).