Last week we discovered we had a problem with our landline; we were getting somebody else’s phone calls and when I tried to ring Mumsy she didn’t know it was me because her caller id said, I don’t know who it is and *shrugged* in the way that only landline phones can.
It meant that if Hospital had been trying to get hold of Blokey they would have failed, but we were sure all was fine because they usually try his mobile if they can’t get through to the house. Ten minutes after British Telecom had rectified the situation (apologies were not received, bad BT) the phone rang and Blokey found himself talking to Hospital, five days after his clinic appointment.
Your white blood count (wbc) is rather low, they said. Please decrease your CellCept even further to 250mg twice a day and make an appointment to have your blood taken at the GPs surgery in two weeks, not four.
Blokey picked me up from work that day (our wedding anniversary) and we saw Bill Bailey (very funny man) in town so I didn’t have a chance to do some research on the Internet to put his mind at rest until I got into work the following morning; he was convinced it meant Our Kidney was beginning a rejection episode.
It isn’t a rejection epsiode and is apparently quite normal/common in transplant patients, due to the drugs. Obviously it’s not particularly good and can lead to further complications, but at least it definitely explains the mouth ulcers which won’t heal and the sore throat which won’t stop hurting.
Yesterday I was a Good Girl and toddled off to see the nursey for my smear. Yuckity yuck yuck. What makes it even worse is the running commentary whilst she’s doing it. Her first words as I did her bidding and spread my knees apart was, Oh, I do get to see lots of different pretty [where the fuck is this going, I panicked in my head] toenails. Oh, thank goodness!
And then she’s gabbling on about just putting this up and now I’m twiddling it about because I need the very centre of your cervix and oh look! as if by magic there it is and now I’m just taking a sample are you ok? good. And all the time I’m lying there thinking, please shut up! but not saying it because I think her intention was to make me feel more at ease and in a silly way it did actually work. Now I just have to hope that it comes back clear because I really don’t want to go through it again. I was supposed to have it done in June as that was three years since my last one, but I’m the sort of woman who puts it off until her Blokey threatens to tell her mum.
On my way out I stopped at reception and asked if I needed to fit a certain criteria to qualify for a free flu jab, which I’ve never had before and wouldn’t have had this year if Blokey’s wbc hadn’t been too low. Oh, yes. I’m afraid so, said the lady. Ok, I only have one kidney and my Blokey is on immunosuppressants due to having had a transplant. Does that fit the criteria? She had to ask someone but they said it was fine. I can fit you in at 9.54 tomorrow morning, she said. She must have made a note on my records to say that I was allowed for free because of Blokey because when I went in this morning they wondered where he was. Oh, he had it done through work, I said. They made a note on his medical record.
After she made me sit down she waved the needle around and told me that I might find it a little sore later today, then she said I could go. Eh? Have you done it? I asked. OMG! (< in my head that sounds so gay!) When I was little having a needle stuck in your arm was the worst thing EVER. This didn’t even hurt. I didn’t even need a lollipop to make it all better, or my Mumsy’s soothing voice to calm me down.
Still, best not get complacent; next time it will probably make me cry.
(Day 739, NO DIALYSIS!!!)
he stole my kidney! 