So, to pursue this mental tale: Thursday, a bit later, Lisa, a breast care nurse that I know from the breast unit, brought me a heart-shaped pillow and a shoulder bag for the drains. She explained that my body will be trying to identify the implant which is under the steak from the back. It will try to put white blood cells in to kill it off as a foreign body but will soon realise it canʼt, so it might start trying to do the next best thing which would be to encase it in scar tissue. She was warning me that things like this can lead to the need for maintenance later. She also explained that the part of my back which was swung round has left two layers that are now stuck together as if with glue. She likened it to a ham sandwich having had the ham taken out of it and the two pieces of buttery bread being stuck together. She is brilliant at constructing helpful images.
Fredʼs cousin Suzanne dropped in. I was so touched. Also my friend from Debden days, also called Suzanne, came by as she had accompanied her son for an MRI. Thrilling and unexpected. You just have no clue whoʼs going to pop by for a quick reccy.
On Friday I received a text from Mad Lucy. It said: ʻThe gin club support squad are mobilised and ready for action. ETA, gin oʼclock.ʼ
They turned up, Lucy, Claire, Agent X and Mette, a rowdy rabble. ʻShushʻ I hissed, ʻweʼre in a bloody hospital. Youʼll get me evicted!ʼ Claireʼs cousin Becky from Manchester was with them. I had only ever met her on Facebook so we were delighted. She has done five chemos and has one left to go, but had her op before the chemo. She was recently hospitalised with an infection but is now against the odds looking fantastic with her blueygreen headscarf and translucent earrings. We both dumped our scarves because it was so hot.
The club had brought gin and ice and lemon and glasses. I had a burdock, dandelion and ginger drink instead. A nurse came in. ʻWeʼre having too much fun,ʼ I explained guiltily. (Sin is back. Poor Dennis will have to come again.) ʻIt is allowed,ʼ she smiled. ʻWeʼre ignoring the bellows of laughter coming out of this room.ʼ Thatʼs Agent Xʼs fault. Mad Lucy swears she can hear her laughing from the other end of their common street.
The club absolutely drooled over the new boob. They were as surprised as me that it looks so good. I told them all about Miss Benyon. Every time I say her name I give a little sigh of admiration and joy. Claire said I obviously fancy her and now that I have lesbian hair I could make advances. I said she would never have me as she has seen my fat, scars, baldness and probably lolling tongue. Claire said no, Miss Benyon could sculpt me into a perfect shape exactly as she wanted me. Ooh, we did ave a larf and a half.
Claire wants to write a blog solely about the exploits of the gin club but says she canʼt write for shit. I told her she should call it ʻThe Worst Blog in the World.ʼ She came up with ʻThe Worst Blogin the World. ʼ He he. It wonʼt be like my blog. No angels, only cynicism and despair. However, she did shave her head for me. Maybe only a true cynic would do that, having shed all clinging shreds of vanity. Hmm, a girl of contradictions. Will we ever truly know the darkness in her soul? Perhaps she is an angel but in a most sophisticated disguise.
Mad Lucy had brought me blackberry chocolate, kissing mints and balms. Mette brought me stacks of postcards from her art shop. Peeps will be receiving these soon – panic not,you have not been forgotten. Not sure how, but we ended up getting very merry and singing ʻI beliii-hiii-hiiieeeve in angels, something good in everything I see,ʼ before we remembered to shush. I managed to get rid of the bunch of loons.
At around nine at night a nurse came in and said she was very sorry but they badly needed my room for someone else. (More on this later!) Damn, I had a feeling the raucous party atmosphere of the gin club would cause my eviction. Claireʼs caterwauling might have been their clue that I am having an absolute ball and donʼt deserve my private suite. I had to move out there and then and lie on my bed in the corridor for two hours as punishment (only joking obv, they really were sorry) while they arranged for a space in a communal bay to be cleaned. I didnʼt mind. I eavesdropped on snippets of banter between nurses. Being on a ward is kind of noisy though. Snoring, groaning, comings and goings. Harder to sleep and the view is mostly blocked by a curtain. Never mind, I was spoilt for four days, canʼt complain.
So today I met Susan in the bed opposite. She was in a collision with a bus in her Smart Car seven weeks ago and was airlifted here, unconscious, from Kings Lynn. Canʼt remember a thing about it, not even where she was trying to get to. If she had gone to her local hospital she would have had her arm amputated, but here they saved it and gave her a skin graft from her thigh. She is shockingly lucky to be alive. She has not been home in seven weeks and misses her seventeen-month-old labradoodle, Ted. I suggested her husband bring the dog and take her down in a wheelchair to see him. Susan refused all vegetables and salad at lunch. I tried to make her have some but she wouldnʼt.
The pretty blond in the bed next to her has had surgery to remove excess skin stretched from previously being (her own words) ʻmorbidly obeseʼ. (BTdubs donʼt wuz she has said she doesnʼt mind if I put her in the blog.) She had a stomach bypass a while back which made her into ʻthe amazing shrinking mother.ʼ Sores from resultant flaps of skin forced her into the op. Her life is like Eastenders in more ways than ten. Jolly entertaining. Her beautiful daughters are called Shanelle and Chelsea (This last after the football club and the flower show, apparently). Her cat is called Tibby, but his full name is TubbyMctubmuffintub-burgerboy. Double-barreled poshness. It must be admitted that this extravagance rivals our Lucifer Archimedes Benjifluffles Fattipuss. This lady has become a bit of an instant addict on the morphine front, though, must be said, looking at her watch waiting for her next dose, but then her op was only on Thursday afternoon.
OMG have just been enlightened by Susan that the lady in this very spot before me was whisked off and given my room because some swabs had come back positive for something deeply infectious deserving instant isolation. FREAKOUT! Thatʼs why the cleaners were so strenuously wielding their disinfectant-laden mops at eleven at night. They even put up new curtains. At least Iʼve kept my own bed, table and cupboard and Iʼve been following the nursesʻ lead and washing my hands every five seconds. OMG do you think they wiped the light, the chair? Bloody Hell, donʼt come and visit me now, guys. Oh, TubbyMctubmuffintub-burgerboyʼs mum just told me she saw them wipe the light, and the chair. Panic over.
The kindest nurse of all, Josie, the one who gave me the foot bath, removed one back drain earlier today. It was the one that was itching a bit, so Iʼm chuffed. It felt revolting as it was tugged out from quite deep inside. Squeamish times, but one down, three to go.
Arulesh called from Harlow Hospital. Her son was rushed in two nights ago with a raging temperature. They were terrified he had contracted Dengue Fever in Sri Lanka. Arulesh has known people who died of this, so was panicked out of her mind as you can imagine. However, all seems to be well and fear is subsiding. Thank the angels.
Trouble does come at least in triplicate: Chloe has not been to visit as she has been in severe pain. She thought she had bruised her coccyx and asked Fred to drive her to the doctorʼs clinic. He refused as sheʼd been out on the piss living it up all night so he was blowed if he was going to bother as she wasnʼt even trying to get better. The next day she was in such agony that he relented. The Doc said the impact had caused an extremely painful internal infection. So she wasnʼt skiving, poor lass.
Fred texted me ʻHave just been squeezing puss out of Chloeʼs back.ʼ The mind boggles. I texted back ʻI think you will find that pus is spelt with one s.ʼ Now heʼs laughing wondering how you spell ʻpussyʼ as in ʻfilled with pus.ʼ It canʼt be pusy, nor pusey. Must be pussy. This has sparked a debate on the ward. Fred says ʻHa, you see, pussy and pussy are spelt the same.ʼ I say, ʻMaybe, but puss and pus are not.ʼ
The mind also strangles itself over who might be emptying the dishwasher at home, seeing as how Chloe was scheduled to be in charge of all that shiz. Iʼm just not going to think about it. Iʼm going to enjoy the fact I have lusciously entertaining new neighbours and the fact the NHS know how to make a mean cup of tea.
Ooh, Addenbrookeʼs Radio just came round. Theyʼre doing a request show from five today. Guess what I requested? No! Not I Believe in Angels, (although Iʼll phone in with that one too, as everyone here needs angels.) Seasons in the Sun of course. Because it doesnʼt do to forget neither our darkest anguish nor our childhood holidays. Will leave you now as Iʼm going to tune in.
Yay, they are playing it now!!! Now that the spring is in the air, little children everywhere….think of me and iʼll be there….the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time….the wine and the song like the seasons have all gone……boo hoo hoo, oh shit, Iʼm going to crash just like Miss Benyon (sigh of admiration and joy) predicted….with the flowers everywhere, I wish we could both be there…ooh wicked key change, ooh another one, orgasmic stuff….all our lives we had fun, we had seasons in the sun….
I rest my quill, for as Fred says, I could blog all day, but that is one way to get clots.