No Room For Water

I'd had a rough few days feeling sick and sore all over, but no actual high temperature. They tell you that when you are on chemo and you feel unwell, or have even a slightly high temperature, you should go straight to A&E and flash your Red Book at them till they rush you through triage and check your blood to see if your white cell count (immunity) is low. But when you are on chemo you feel like poo anyway, so how do you know if it's an A&E job, or not? 



Despite feeling yuck, my temp had been, if anything, on the low side, so I decided to risk a thrombosis and possible accusations of laziness, and just stopped in bed for the worst of it. But by Saturday night I didn't know what to do with myself, and every time I took my temp it was higher (though still in the normal range) than the time before. 



Next I started crying in X factor (not because of the dreadful acts, though maybe it didn't help), and John said, 'What's the matter now?' 



'I don't know,' I whined, 'but I don't WANT to go to hospital!' 



'Well why are you going to hospital?'



'Because you have to if your temperature goes up... And they'll keep me in and I'll catch something while I'm there and I hate hospitals and I don't want to go...'



'So has your temperature gone up?'



'A bit, but it's still normal.'



'Well there you go, you're fine.'



But I felt far from fine, and by the time I went to bed, my teeth were chattering and when I took my temperature I was scared to look - 38.9c.  I said, 'John, it's 38.9c - I should go to A&E.' It was 10.30pm and he was knackered after a long day's work, and he didn't look a bit pleased to be dragged out of bed to drive me to the hospital. 



I said, 'Ok, let me take it again...' Same. 38.9 - 'ok, once more...'



'Oh, for goodness sake, make up your mind, are we going, or not?'



'Ok. Yes. No. Let me take it again... Alright, just once more.'





We were rushed through triage pretty quickly and by 11pm I was in a little side room getting checked from head to toe. The temperature had risen even higher and my white blood cell count was (is) 0, so with that and certain markers in my blood indicating an infection, it was all being taken very seriously by this point. There was an infection somewhere, they just had to work out where. The thing is, having got me there, they wouldn't let me go home. So me and poor John were stuck in the side room while I was given fluids and paracetamol, and I did actually start to feel a bit better - for the first time in days. 





It was fun getting wheeled down the corridors on my little bed with the rails up on the sides. I wanted to say, 'Go on, faster, faster...' But I just sat there in silence watching the wall art flash by until gradually the corridors grew darker, and to be honest, smellier. I was taken to a a side room off one of the wards where I was to be kept in isolation because of my lack of immunity. It's a bit like going private, but without the décor, and the ceiling does look suspiciously like it might come down any minute. 



It was now 3.ooam Sunday, and John, who had been up since 6.00am Saturday, felt a sudden need to go home, and that's why I don't think he was very pleased when I burst into tears again at the thought of being left there alone. But he went in the end, and I slept well until someone woke me at 6.00am to ask if I'd like coffee or tea. I didn't. 



I dozed for a bit, and got woken half and hour later for meds, half an hour later for blood pressure, and half an hour later a man came in and tried to put a plastic jug of water on my bedside table, but there was no room because the space was taken up by the load of big bottles of water John had brought for me. And when I saw how confused the poor man looked, I told him I didn't need water, and he turned and wandered back out without a word. 



I fell asleep, but half an hour later someone brought me a breakfast of cold ham and cereal, and I said, thanks but I wasn't hungry and also vegetarian, and all I wanted to do was sleep, which I did - till half an hour later when I was woken to have my room cleaned, and half an hour later to have my bed changed, and then the doctor came. That's isolation for you.



John arrived at 2.00pm and fell asleep in the chair. I said, 'Ooh, John, is that a spider on the ceiling in the corner?' and he jumped up, 



'Where? Where?' 



I said, 'There!' But it wasn't when he looked. I said, 'You look tired, you should shut your eyes and have a little sleep...' He said, 'I was. You woke me up to ask about the spider...' And he couldn't get comfy again after that. 



He left about 7.00 to feed Willow and walk the dogs, and me, I had more antibiotics and watched Sunday's X factor in red on a TV that makes everyone sound like they're taking (or singing) in Dalek - and thought it was an improvement. 



I was woken for antibiotics at 2.00am, and at 5.00, a man came in dressed as a nurse - said, 'Um, no, it isn't here...' And walked out again. 



The man with the water came back again, too. I watched with some interest while he tried to find a space between all the bottled water, thinking he'd smile and realize I didn't need it, but in the end, I had to explain again, and he turned without a word and took his little plastic jug away.



I was told I'd be out by about Tuesday - that's tomorrow, as I'm writing, but I've just seen the doctor, and she said - 'I'm really pleased with your progress so far, you're looking well... No, no, not Tuesday, more like, um... another 7 days??? 



What? I knew I shouldn't have gone to A&E.



(Wednesday night - just got out. I think they needed the bed.)