I was enjoying a meeting at work on my day off (short story, but needs no explanation) the week before last when our site manager popped his head round the door and played that game which involves mouthing, pointing and the recepient (in this case me) looking wildly around to see who is being mouthed to. The Blokey was waiting for me in reception with a sad look on his face.
“I have to go to the Big Hospital in maC; there’s a bed waiting for me.”
Oh, sucks.
He’d had a regular clinic appointment the previous day and the blood results had come back showing that his creatinine levels (nope, I have no idea what that is either) had sky-rocketed.
“We’ll take you off the Warfarin and give you a biopsy,” proclaimed one doctor. “We’ll leave you on the Warfarin and not give you a biopsy,” proclaimed another ten minutes later.
They took him off the Warfarin so that they could give him a biopsy on his kidley-widdly, which he had on Monday. On Tuesday they inserted a line into his chest so that he can have temporary dialysis, and on Tuesday night he had his first dialysis session.
Whoa! Slow down!
It may not (*fingers and other things crossed*) be as bad as was originally expected. The biopsy revealed four things wrong with his kidley-widdlies, all of which they think they can sort out. One of the things wrong was an allergic reaction to a pill he’s been on since last September, which causes kidley-widdly damage in one in five hundred people who take it.
(Sue! Sue!)
They also found that although the nerve endings were dying, his kidley-widdlies are trying to repair themselves. Hopefully the dialysis will be a temporary measure, until his kidley-widdlies decide to play ball and get to a point where they can take care of themselves. We’re hoping that it’s as temporary as temporary can be because for three nights a week I won’t see him. He’ll go straight from work to the the Big Hospital in maC (thirty miles from home – although our more local hospital does have a dialysis unit, it doesn’t do twilight sessions and he can’t afford to take lots of time off work because they’ve just made twenty folk redundant) and should arrive home at eleven-ish, by which time I’ll be enjoying a visit to the Land of Nod.
Still, if it makes him better then all is good, yes? He’s had three dialysis sessions so far and he does seem to have more energy and is acting a little perkier. It’s nice, even if cuddling up is difficult because of the bloody tubes sticking out of his chest. Oh, and his legs are getting hairier because of the steroids he’s back on. Tsk.
He was in hospital for just eight days this time. And I think my OCD tendancies get worse with each hospital visit. Don’t get me wrong, I love him being home … but when I got in from work on Friday there were crumbs all over the kitchen. This made me snarl foul things about the man I love. Just how difficult is it to use a plate?! And on the subject of difficulty, how difficult is it to make the bed? Or plump up the cushions? Or put the newspapers into the recycling box? Or just use one glass instead of piling them up?
I really must a) teach him how to do these things and b) learn not to let it get to me so much (a home is for living in after all) …
I’m desperate to mow the lawn, but think it might be a tad too early.
