Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Day 67 - More hospital chemo ramblings

Its 0115 and still no drugs, Captain Mitchell tells me that the “Chemo” is not in the chiller but still in the “make up” room so kick off is delayed until 0200 hours. Midnight and 0200 is much the same unless you’re a ghost or have a plane to catch and after all as UK licensing laws have changed so that we can get a bloody drink when we want to will ghosts have to change their hours of haunting?

I must be a 6th former as I have been given permission to administer my own drugs which include a cocktail of painkillers and two different laxatives which to be honest is more information than you need but they seem to be all wind and no action! You have of course to sign a form to say you take full responsibility to administer your own drugs, but after all it is the same ones as I have been taking at home for weeks and then ones that I have been trying to find the most effective pain relief.

At 0200 am, Admiral Mitchell arrived spot on, he exact quote “could not be late with you on the ward” He tried to funny quoting that he had put the liquids in the fridge and it would hurt as ice cold liquid hits my body I said I bring it on as I hugged my sheep. The sheep the padded warming furry creature had been shaved and it her summer coat.

I had the last laughed Major Mitchell had forget to turn the sheep on so for the first hour I sat their thinking this bags cold!

The rest of the day went off without incident, apart from I had a Delia moment when the 1st bag of chemo finished at 1200 midday and at 1235 despite my GIMP beeping nobody came to change the bag. I reminded the staff that “I not a celebrity, but more reason to get me out of here”

Chemo finished at 2.30pm and a row have ensued between the ward and the radiotherapy (RT) department, which meant that the gap hour between chemo finishing and RT should be 4 hours. I understand the RT section has complained over the time it has taken to finish the chemo! I think it is more to do with going home early than the burning desire to get me under the microwaves!

At least the is horse racing on the telly. I thinking if I am honest I only enjoy Horse racing for the betting and instant cash and the generous amounts of beer and champagne and beer you can drink. Its Glorious Goodwood, 5 days of watching identical snorting horsy beasts mincing around a paddock, each with a tiny emaciated Irishman on its back, and then melee hurtling along in a cloud of clods while a very posh commentator pretends he can tell you which one you have staked your wife on with a man standing on a box wearing a dodgy car coat with a brummie accent.

Of course at Good there will be ladies day, where call centre girls from Southampton dress in flimsy dresses as the British weather unleashes a force 8 gale on the Sussex Downs and upsets the outside drinking games. One thing they can see is hours of more identical snorting beasts mincing, whilst the prance around the paddock wearing a fruit and veg stall on their head, whilst being followed by a pompous and posh commentator accompanied by a fashion expert who looks like he should be working on the fruit and veg stall!

The trouble is that horses weigh a few tonnes, have huge heads, asses as big as their owners with nasty big teeth and big hoofs, actually like their owners that get bigger when standing up and attempting to decapitate the fruit and veg stall off the “call centre” heads and throwing the tiny Irishman off like Tom Thumb. Cut to the trainer who tells Claire “A bit of big lass who happens to live with a woman” that he’s a “real baby and friendly horse at home” what does he mean he curls up with the sofa with the family or if he ever breaks a leg he will be easier to shoot than innocent man wearing a large overcoat without a tube ticket.

As the paramedics rush into the paddock to attend to the decapitated lass and the Irishman remounts and bags his fee. Now with respect, huge ass and legs, 3 tonnes in weight, awesome head with big nashers, and the chance to kill does not sound like the place to be for me, but does sound like woman I went out in my teenage years. The horse racing got worse, the odds on favourite got beaten in the big and the trainer should of said “Look all your boys who have just spent this weeks housekeeping on my horse, he was crap the jockey never understood a thing I said and should be auditioning for the Christmas Diddyman movie” Alas they don’t listen to these excuses.

• The horse does like a right-handed track! The track was 5 furlong flat course with no beds
• He does not start well out the gates! He has run 21 times before why has it taken it until now to realise?
• He struggles on grass! Why bloody enter it, I give up!

I have managed to negotiate an early exit tonight from the hospital as the treatment has been speeded up so keep attacking I am off to pack my bag!

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Must say found your column, which it can only be called these days, was most entertaining. Your free repartee seems easily come by and gives a quite jaunty feel to the reader. Sad to find that you have to suffer such pain in order to find the time to sit in a hospital bed to write it. However, maybe it would be good to suggest that you might think about doing it on a regular basis. Material does not seem to be a problem as the comedy in your speech comes across very light heartedly. If it is any consolation to the pain and deprevation you are having to suffer in order to keep on your bus journey I think you have the makings of a pretty good columnist, and should possibly think about doing a regular piece. Might be worth thinking about as a future venture to come out of all this. Good luck.