tits n’ pricks #9

With just seven days till NO DIALYSIS! we were invited to the hospital to enjoy a morning of pre-operative assessments.

We’d been forewarned that it would involve copious moments of wasted time and indeed it did. However, Blokey had his Private Eye so all was well.

It gave me the opportunity to enjoy one of my favourite past-times; people-watching. This inevitably raised questions. Who, out of the Indian family with their translator, needed the transplant? Why did the WHOLE family need to come along to get the little kid’s arm x-rayed? Does that young man eat noodles for his lunch every day, or does he value variety? Does anybody ever shop in The Body Shop on the concourse?

The ECG: I had to get my boobies out again. I’m getting old and when I lie down they tend to sag a bit. Blasted gravity! Being completely naked on top, but fully-dressed on bottom can make someone feel pretty stupid. At least, as long as that someone is me.

The X-ray: I had to strip again! Blokey didn’t have to strip. I assume it must be something to do with being of the bra-wearing species. Still, the blue gown is fetching. When I last had a chest x-ray the chap kept me waiting like a numpty as he faffed around. Having had another one lasting a matter of in-confirm-radiate-out seconds, I now suspect that he was having a good laugh at my expense.

The Blood: The non-professional vampire on the transplant ward consumed NINE! vials of my blood. He was far better at the consumption of blood than the professional vampires in the Blood-Taking Clinic. He was nice as well. Upon discovering my teacher-ish background he began discussing Educating Essex. I haven’t seen it though, so that was a bit of a conversation stopper.

I hope he’s not urinary-catheter person.

The Doctor: She was about fifteen and she kept us waiting for aeons. Seriously; at least an hour and a half. Then she tried to make me hyperventilate. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out … When Blokey had his turn shortly afterwards I burst into silent laughter, like a child. SO easily amused.

The Embarrassing Question: I asked it! It’s been bugging me and so I took the bull by the horns and let Blokey wallow in TMI self-pity. I think I might be in full-flow mode on the day of the operation (I’m slightly not-so regular and have a few days to play with); will this matter? Living Donor Lady smiled. It’s not a problem … the nurses are used to it and they won’t be fussed. Obviously it will just be me that’s fussed, but it does help to know that they’re used to it! She mentioned paper knickers and pads. Paper knickers? Oooh, fun!

Swabbage: We were swabbed for MRSA. Groin, nose, tickle the back of the throat. Blokey is so used to doing it that he did his own. I did my nose, but let the Living Donor Lady take charge of my groin and throat. It did mean that she got a brief glimpse of my I Love Nerds pants. Lucky woman!

And that was it. We celebrated with a MASSIVE Mexican meal (and a Woo Woo!) and then we came home.

We were feeling very pleased with ourselves this morning. We got up, washed the car, I posted some thirteenth birthday goodies to my nephew and we rubbed our hands in glee, pleased that we hadn’t had a phone call saying that something was amiss.

Oh, right. We got a phone call at about two-thirty this afternoon. Remember the MRSA malarkey where Blokey deviated between being negative and positive, and I had to spend a week scrubbing like a … well, like a scrubber, and Blokey had to shower every day in Hibiscus* stuff?

Oh, it’s okay. The MRSA swabbage results from yesterday came back negative. But they’re not the THIRD negative result in a row. Blokey is thus VERY annoyed. HaemoD told him that he’d had three negatives in a row, and he’s just asked at his session now and they’re insistent that he had three negatives. But there’s no blinking evidence. So, we may not be able to take part in the BP cuff trial and he’ll have to be pumped full of antibiotics before the op. He’s worried this will affect the kidney. I said they wouldn’t do the operation if they thought it was going to be a risk. I mean, I’m not a cadaver am I? They’re not going to take my kidney if they think there’s a risk. He’s a Silly Billy sometimes.

On the plus side, whilst I have to potentially share a bay with Mrs Annoying, Miss Chatterbox and Ms Moany, he’ll get to be in a room all on his own. No distractions, no visitors belonging to other patients, no noise from someone else’s tellybox … and possibly no me. But we’ll need to clarify that when we get there on Monday. That will be suckity boo.

I’m remarkably calm and still sleeping well. But there are still six days till NO DIALYSIS!

*smiles* (nervously)

*hibiscus: a flower, not to be confused with hibiclens: an MRSA treatment … i often become confused.

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4 comments

  1. Gregory has some kind of classification scheme for people in hospital wards. There’s the button pushers, the groaners, the snorers, the pukers…
    Hmm. I’m sure there’s more than that. I’ll have to ask him. πŸ™‚

  2. As a friend is fond of saying: “It’s getting real, now!” I’m so excited/nervous for you and The Blokey – but that is my usual response to something like this and thus nothing to worry about. πŸ™‚
    I dislike having roommates in the hospital as I’m never sure if we should chat or not. :-/ I’m not ordinarily chatty but I can play outgoing if I need to. I cannot, however, keep this up without extreme awkwardness setting in after a time so I try to avoid chatting too much.
    I’m sure you’ll do fine, though, as you’re such a dear. πŸ™‚

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