Very few things the grown ups taught me as a child stayed the course. I’ve lived my life mainly on a self-taught basis, just I acquired most of the temporary skills I picked up along the way using the same method. (Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t, but I persevered anyway.) One of the things which did stay with me, however, was the notion that we all owe it to ourselves to use whatever skills we possess to the best of our ability. Just about the only skill I possess these days is the ability to write reasonably well, and so I can’t divest myself of the niggling sense that I’m failing in my duty to myself if I don’t do it. I don’t necessarily agree with it, but the niggle persists. So let me think back over the past few weeks and see whether I can find anything worth saying.
The most obvious is the crisis. I won’t go into detail because it would make unpleasant reading, but the bottom line comes down to this:
Blood in substantial quantity where there should be none at all (two pints was my estimate). The confusion of never having had anything like it happen before (which is scary). The pain, the nausea, the ashen appearance of my face in the mirror, and the concomitant weakness and dizziness. That’s the bottom line as far as the signs and symptoms are concerned.
It was interesting to note that the medical staff into whose care I was eventually committed seemed largely unconcerned. Well they would, wouldn’t they? They’re trained professionals to whom blood is simply a component of their craft. To those of us who are not so trained, blood in quantity is an emotive issue.
And then there was the fact that I was alone throughout the experience. I’m nearly always alone because I live alone and I’m a loner by nature. That’s generally fine; in fact, it’s generally how I prefer it. But it isn’t easy to keep a clear head and decide on the best course of action when you’re scared, confused and going through a version of physical hell. I managed nevertheless, and later thought that I would rather have it that way than be irritated to hell by some well meaning companion giving out incorrect or inadequate information. I’d prefer to take control of my own destiny in such matters, and that’s what I did. The upshot amounted to forty two hours in hospital, one night without sleep, some not inconsiderable pain and inconvenience in the course of treatment, and two missed meals. But I did get to meet lots of lovely nurses (including the Chinese one who took my cannula out), and I met Mr Zafar again – he’s the consultant who removed my cancerous kidney three years ago, the day before going off on a sabbatical. Thoroughly nice chap, Mr Zafar. And I think that will do.
In other news…
1. Spring is springing in the Shire. The crocuses and snowdrops have been resplendent and are now fading away to take their well earned summer rest. Their places at high table are being taken by daffodils, primroses and hyacinths, while there is much leaf growth from bluebells, tulips and wild garlic to promise more colour and sustenance next month. The first blackthorn blossom is out and the hedgerows are greening nicely. (The main area of concern, however, is that another potential health issue seems to be on the rise which might prevent me taking walks in this bucolic wonderland for the third summer in succession. It remains to be seen.)
2. I would so like to wish the girl with richest raven hair a very happy birthday and many happy returns, but I can’t because an undertaking is an undertaking. But I wish it privately anyway. The memory of seeing her in that blue cotton maternity dress on a sunny May day three years ago will never leave me. Nothing I have ever seen was quite so lovely.
Should I say it again? Yes. I might be back.
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