Friday 04 October 2002

Well, blah, that there was a truly crapular fortnight hence lack of updates. (Gosh do I ever know how to pull those readers in and raise that hit count - nothing like a rousing beginning hmmmm? Ah well, once more into the breach, dear friends, once more ...)

First up though: matters vis a vis UK visa et al remain at status quo, ie, SNAFU. Gee, there's a surprise. Plans for Operation Relocate are underway; we've got all the information and forms for Sam's Australian visa (unfortunately totally useless until we get all our documentation back from the UK Immigration, tra la la and hey nonny nonny).  I'm in my anal retentive element, having an orgy of making lists, updating cv's, revising home and contents inventories, and plotting basic home improvements. Oh, and the in-laws have been informed, phew.

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Mostly though, I've been as sick as a rabid, starving, lame, blind, worm-ridden dog that has quite possibly been recently infected with Ebola. It's been fun.

Monday I felt pretty wretched, pain wise; Tuesday I was worse and by Tuesday night I was experiencing full-on severe muscle spasms with totally uncontrollable unbearable pain levels, screaming, crying, writhing and throwing up all-inclusive. To be honest, I was terrified. I haven't experienced pain levels that high for about four years and on that occasion I was rushed to hospital and spent over a week whacked out on pethadeine (bed goes up, bed goes down, bed goes up, bed goes down). Nothing, absolutely nothing, in my erm "arsenal" was working and I just didn't know what to do. I considered setting up a dozen vodka shots to follow everything else but decided against it. I was freaked and scared enough to consider, though.

I imagine Sam was a little freaked out too.

Somehow I/we got through the night. I rang the doctor's surgery, and despite the initially unhelpful receptionist (amazing what a bit of crying/begging/swearing can do) got put through to my doctor immediately. She couldn't do much for me, she said; I was already on the highest types and levels of pain-killing medication as it was. She suggested I come in for an injection of an anti-inflammatory to see if that would help calm things down, plus prescriptions for the capsule form of aforementioned anti-inflammatory and some anti-nausea tabs to take along with everything else. I didn't hold out much hope for the anti-inflammatories, really, as they haven't been helpful in the past, but I was at the "gimme gimme" stage by then, ready to try anything if only it would help calm things down.

So Sam ordered up a cab, dressed me (yep I was incapable of dressing myself, I was shaking and whimpering and seized up so much - we didn't bother with the finer points of brassieres or shoelaces or mascara), half-carried me down the stairs and out to the cab, whereupon he lifted me in and on arrival at the surgery, lifted me out again and half-carried, half-dragged me into the surgery.  The receptionist took one look at me and sent me through to the Treatment Room, practically yelling for the nurse which I found terribly amusing for some reason. So then I had a teensy-weensy little jab (yeah riiiiight - why do they bother saying it's just going to be a little prick when you know damn well it's something a prize stud bull would be proud of) in my botty and Sam somehow got me into a cab and back home and into bed again.

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The last week and a bit has thus been spent in a pain- and drug-induced zombie haze. While the pain levels have eased from fucking terrifying to merely shriekingly bad, I'm still in bloody awful shape (please note use of accurate medical terminology). I'm still pretty much immobile, I can't sleep and I'm doing more whimpering, crying, quivering and spazzing because of the pain than I like. My appetite and general attitude towards food is not great (ie, I don't want to eat; if I do force myself to eat something innocuous like a dry cracker it returns at high speed - not exactly what you'd call "positive reinforcement"), and I'm very weepy and drained and in that horribly vulnerable state where any moment now I'm likely to burst into weak tears and cries of "I want my Muuuuuuummy".

So so not fun.

I can't handle much more of this, and that's the truth.

I'll try for a nice bright cheerful entry next time, possibly revolving around the cat. Jessie's always good for a laugh.

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