Blokey and I haven’t been away together since our first anniversary weekend in 2007. It’s not that we haven’t tried, it’s simply that other things have cropped up. Like an illness.
I should have known something would go wrong when I booked a weekend away for our anniversary this year.
We woke up at some ridiculous hour on Friday morning and, having packed our things in the car, we arrived at dialysis bright and early. We ate toast and drank tea, and I read my book and enjoyed watching Nicky Wire and the new Manics video on BBC Breakfast. With an hour or so to go, I toddled off for a walk and a spot of people-watching.
When I next saw Blokey he looked like shit. Pale, with big bags under his eyes and he needed to hold onto me to keep himself steady. I don’t know how he got out of the dialysis centre without them spotting he was in such a bad way, but he did. The fact that his BP was fine (by his standards) probably helped.
So, we had lunch at the hospital, instead of stopping somewhere on our way to the hotel. Blokey had a sip of my tea, but was worried about drinking because he wanted to enjoy himself and not think too much about fluid whilst we were away.
Yes, in hindsight I should have realised immediately that the silly bugger had taken off too much fluid and was incredibly dehydrated. It wasn’t until we were nearly at our destination (only a hundred miles from home, but far enough for someone to drive who isn’t really up to it!) that he had a drink, and suddenly felt a little better.
In consequence, he felt like poo for most of the weekend, but I know he felt really bad about it. Part of me was sympathetic, but another part wanted to shake him by the balls and ask him why he always insists on ruining our special time together. That makes me feel like a complete b!tch, yet everytime we arrange something nice he gets ill.
Or maybe he always is ill and it only becomes more apparent when we’re away from our comfort zone.
That thought makes me feel even more of a b!tch.
Still, it was a delightful weekend. We saw hills (we live in a very flat area of England) and gorgeous autumnal colours. I spent a lot of time marvelling at how much the landscape in the UK can change in just a few short miles, and became mildly claustrophobic as I felt the hills closing in on me! We saw squiggle-squirrels and attempted not to get hit by golf balls after posh breakfasts in an old priory.
And now we are home.
Blokey began using his fistula again on Monday. He says it’s really painful when the needles go in. I said had they not mentioned a cream. He said no. I offered to find out the name of it on ihd.com. I forgot.
His Blood Baby has all but disappeared; once the blood began to disperse, it did so remarkably quickly. And at the same time his dangerously high potassium levels have gone from heart-attack inducing to relatively normal. A week ago they kept pestering him about his diet … we knew it wasn’t his diet! Pesky nursing staff.
On Monday I oggled Nicky Wire (and the rest of the Manic Street Preachers) in the flesh.