I should never have remarked on the behaviour of Cute Ute the Despoiler. Last night, at about three in the bloody Goddamned morning, she woke me with ferocious cramps and a gush of blood and clots. Oh, hurrah.
I eventually woke the (exhausted, half-dead-with-stress) H while fumbling helplessly about for the co-codamol (I was in the wrong room altogether). H found the pills, fetched me a glass of water, and made me up a hot-water-bottle to ease the pain in my lower back, and I fell asleep with his hand resting comfortably on my shoulder. H did not fall asleep again, not for a while. I really need to stop doing that to him.
Anyway, I was rather better this morning (though we have ordered a great many more sanitary pads in our next supermarket delivery (we live in a big big city. We are spoilt)). So I wrestled my way into my anti-embolism compression socks and H took me for a little walk around the local park, where all the conveniently-placed benches are. My leg still hurts like a bastard’s bastard son-of-a-camel, so some of the sitdownathons were about me trying to get my leg up and cussing under my breath as my knee spasmed. I was also surprisingly (no. Not surprisingly. You have a pulmonary embolism, you dumb bitch) weak and out of breath. But H took my blood-pressure and pulse when we got home (he has had a machine for years for his own purposes) and my blood-pressure was ‘excellent’ and pulse only 90, which after the sitting-the-fuck-down somersaults of Tuesday and Wednesday we have decided is acceptable.
But, Gentle Readers, compression socks oh my horsey God. I have to wear these for two fucking years. Every day. All day. Compression socks. You know the devil-octopus socks they stick you in if you’re immobilised by surgery? More so. These are not prevention devices, they are medical devices to treat existing DVT. And by ‘eck, but they are devices. The Haematology Nurse warned me I wouldn’t be able to tolerate them right away when she first handed them to me on Wednesday, because of the emming-effing pain I was already in. I managed to get them on for a few hours yesterday, and my poor leg felt like a boa-constrictor was slowly squeezing it to mince. They’re not so bad today, but oh, the pressure. I am under such pressure. Ugh.
I am only grateful this pair are green, and not dead-leg-beige.
To do -
- GP Monday, to say thank you for taking my whiny leg-cramps seriously, please can I have a spare pair or two of compression socks, and now I need a new improved sick-note for work.
- Contact work. Explain. Holy crap on a cracker, explain.
- WTF appointment with Dr George on Tuesday.
- Make appointment with Riverside’s counsellors. Because sheesh.
- Echocardiogram Wednesday.
- Haematology consult on the 12th.
- Have nervous breakdown.