The Funeral

Okay everybody-

If anybody else dies... I've got a guy.

I remember going to funerals as a kid (though not like, living in a Tornado belt kind of often), and never really grasping them. I'd dress in black and be sad, not really understand what was happening or have the remotest clue how this all magically comes together, we'd go to someone's house for juice and God help you if you cracked a smile over anything. 

It was just kind of a ritual that I accepted without question - dress in black. Be sad. Exude sadness. Drink juice. Repeat every once in a while.

And then suddenly at the age of 34 I had to plan one. In another country.

For my dad.

It was pretty unexpected and out of the blue- we'd just gotten home with friends from Norway/America and Brazil at our place in Ireland (it was like a mini UN convention in my living room) late on Saturday night when I got a message from a distant aunt, asking me to call my grandmother. 

That's never a good sign.

However, my grandmother's (bless her!) delivery was a little off:

'Hi Grandma! You were looking for me?'

"Oh Candace! Yes! Don't worry. Everything is fine. I'm fine, Grandpa's fine... but your dad not so much.'

My dad lived a very stressful, very difficult life- and the result of this was that he died of a heart attack at the age of 52, prompting my first trip back to Canada in over 4 years.

I vaguely remember telling the family something along the lines of 

'Don't worry, I'll handle it'

And then my life went completely buck-wild for about 3 days that involved flying across the world with the twins and my life becoming a flurry of arrangements and timbits, Paul and I carting the sleeping twins from house to car to house to car to house as there was just.. no time. 

We were in Canada for a single week, and in that time had to plan a funeral, make all of the arrangements for my father's affairs, make sure that his family would be okay, possibly take a new driving test (?!) and then fly back in time for my inevitable medical meltdown.

Okay. It's okay. I've got this. Paul pat my back and sent me into the ring.

In I went, it didn't matter if I was okay - I was a mom, a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin, a daughter- and if this was to be my dad's last hurrah I was going to be the best damn representative of him to the rest of the world that somehow kept turning without him.

I relied on my incredible friends, women in Australia, the US, the Netherlands and England were sending me links and lists on what to do for a death in Canada for me to read on the plane. Crisis talks were being prepared while we flew to formulate a plan for his wife and daughter to carry on securely with family and friends that came together as experts in their fields. 

When we landed I was given the name of my family's preferred funeral home and I was off like a shot - cool, confident, collected... until I had to start signing death certificates

Cremation orders

and then choosing both a coffin and a cremation vase.

I couldn't do it. Rene (my uncle... who's 46) was with me and he was kind of leaving it up to me - I kept wanting to call Grandma for approval or maybe just to absolve myself of some sort of responsibility from some part of this- I couldn't choose the final resting place for my dad, this was insane! It wasn't possible! It's just not happening! It's just...

Oh wait. 

Nope that's it. That one. It's PERFECT.

And suddenly the funeral had a theme.

This was better. This funeral was now about my dad for who he was, not who he was forced to become over the last 5 years. It was about how funny he was, how generous and how utterly fantastic he was. 

I was going to own that euology. 

My funeral guy, Gary, after having met with me, had to go through a mental list of priests to conduct the ceremony, crossing out those that weren't 'flexible enough' to presumably deal with me. Kudos to him, and he found me one that wasn't too horrified over my questions like:

• Will there be holy water?
  Why?
  You may need it. There might be a couple of guests that burst into flame when they walk into the church.

  

• Can we do the euolgy at the end?
• No. Euologies go at the beginning.
• But this one has to go at the end.
• Why?
• Because there's a finale. And a small stage production. And props.
• At a funeral?
• Yes. So it needs to be at the end. 
• I'll let you split it into two parts.
• Deal.
• And I need you to leave the back door unlocked.
• What? Why?
• In case the finale flops. I need a quick exit.

Well, other than being accosted by an estranged family member in a toilet stall while peeing right before the funeral got underway, narrowly avoiding having to fill my dad's cremation vase with cat litter as there was a delay at the coroner's office (no one would know! It would be fine!), the funeral home letting me steal their outdoor garden plants to satisfy a last minute request from my father's wife and the home's graphic designer helping me photoshop a picture of my dad with the Jasper Store Bear to look as though he'd taken a bear to Sears for a family photo-

we managed to celebrate my father's life in his style, and in a way that I hope we all remember him fondly.

The thing with my dad is that above anything else, he never had enough time. He loved to fish, dirtbike, camp, play golf - he just never, ever had enough time. This was a running theme throughout the speakers at his service, it was echoed by his colleagues when I cleared out his desk at work. It was echoed by his mother. His friends. His family. He just never, ever had enough time. 

It was the end of the eulogy - the big finale. I again brought up my dad's lack of time as I walked to the middle of the dais, lifted the picture cloaking his cremation vase from view and proudly declared:

WELL, NOW HE'S GOT ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD!

I had my dad put into a clock to remind us of how precious our time is, and to stop wasting it on stupid stuff and people that don't appreciate or deserve it.

Overall, the funeral went fairly well, as well as funerals tend to go, with the requisite off the wall dramatics about who gets to do what with his ashes at the very end which went so immediately squirrely that I gave up and stormed out, followed into the parking lot by my funeral guy and his team. 

He assured me that even with the fairly ridiculous ending, he and his team felt the funeral went quite smoothly and on the grand scale of things they would rate this particular funeral drama at about a 4.0 of 10. I did well, I did the right thing and now my work was done. And don't worry, he'll make sure that I get that clock, because that was awesome.

Like I said, if anyone else needs a funeral-

I've got a guy.

I need a nursing degree to put my twins to bed. And a HAZMAT suit.

I worry that we are getting close to a 'serious talking to' from the school nurse.

I don't know what happened to my kids this week, but the twins (despite being only 4, and girls) are covered in bruises, cuts, gashes and excessive bandaging. 

Like they've been in some sort of cock fight.

It started innocently enough - one coming home from school with a band-aid on her arm (field hockey) and the other having to outdo her sister the next day by coming home with a bandage / knee brace (football). The next few days came with bruises (tree), scratches (as of yet unexplained) and a mild concussion (coloring). 

And then it got worse. 

On Thursday morning we were late for school as I'd spent 20 minutes at the pharmacy first stocking an epic first aid kit, then patching Twin A back together in parking lot before bringing her into her class like a victim of war.

She had learned what happens when you are holding a very large cat and then turn on the hair dryer.

I'm sure the blood stains on the sheets will bleach out.

Over the weekend, Twin B's scraped up knee seemed to have gotten infected (with playdoh), and it was re-opened when she ran body-first into the bathroom door. This drew more blood and elicited sheer hysterics, claiming that she could genuinely see her skeleton through the hole in her knee.

Okay, fine. Time for bed guys, up you go.

Twin B is sobbing and needs to be hoisted up to her bed, her bleeding knee completely immobilized by dramatics. Okay, fine. Got her up there and started cleaning her up. Twin A came in clutching her hip - sent her to the loo and saw that she had some sort of hive-like rash all over her hips and pelvis.

What? Okay, come here, let me cream you up with some steroid stuff from your doctor. Layer 1 applied and an antihistamine given. With hives like that it's best to sleep commando tonight honey. No you can't wear tights to bed instead. What do you mean you haven't pooped in 3 days???

Okay. Here's a bit of mummy's fast-acting Senna. Just a small dose. You'll be fine. Back across the room to spray Twin B's knee with iodine

Let the screams settle while I applied layer 2 of steroid cream to pelvis and hips of Twin A. Back to Twin B to apply the almighty 'cream' (Sudocrem. It's our Greek Windex)

and wrap up her knee in a neat, well-practiced surgical dressing. She now can't (refuses) use the knee. Awesome. Back to check on Twin A, who is still complaining of tummy pains. Well, the senna should take care of that sweetie, don't worry. Here's a towel to sleep on-  oh look! Mummy's new pink towel, just in case. Checked that Twin B is now fine, cleaned, bandaged, tucked in and ready for bed, just as I remembered that Twin A's Maine Coon cat gashes on her arm need to have the bandages removed, cleaned and aired out for the night. 

Cue more hysterics and screaming, flopping child.

By this time I had broken a serious sweat, sudocremed her arm from wrist to shoulder and turned to find an inconsolable, sobbing Twin B.

She doesn't get to sleep on a towel, it isn't fair.

Sigh. Deep conversation with Twin B about the possibility of Twin A having had so much senna that she may very well shoot out of her bed and across the room like a flaming rocket, which necessitates the towel. Back to Twin A to tuck her in,3rd layer of steroid cream and-

TWIN B STOP STRAINING, YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TRY TO CRAP YOUR BED! I'M NOT GETTING YOU A TOWEL!

Oh holy hell. I finally escaped the med-zone that was my children's bedroom to relax downstairs while Paul went out to buy laundry detergent (we were out). All was good. All was quiet. All was calm.

And then Paul got home, checked on the kids and found Twin A standing up in bed, pointing down at the 'accident'she'd had the size of a small housecat in the middle of the towel on her bed.

Thank God Paul had brought home washing powder. My only other option was to just light the laundry room on fire.

Sigh. I don't think you necessarily NEED a nursing degree to be a parent - but it certainly would help.

Sick Guilt Help: how to make everything awkward in 10 easy steps

I hate asking for help. Hate it hate it hate it hate it hate it. I'm terrible at it, and any request for help comes with so much heaping self-guilt that it's often just not worth it and I end up half-killing myself to do it on my own. 

This unfortunately also applies to my health - and last week I was in desperate need of help.

It started with Alan and Shirley, two of my colleagues, coming over to stay at my house to help me with my kids and disease (I know, I know) while my husband was away.

And here is how I made everything excruciatingly awkward in 10 easy steps.

1. The Dress Code

When I called them, I was in my pajamas, teeth unbrushed, hair wild and surrounded on my bed by a tissue graveyard of sadness and phlegm.

When they arrived, I was wearing clean yoga pants, a nice sweater, a bra, socks and makeup. I even did my hair. I'd brushed my teeth three times to get rid of 'sick breath'.

So when they rushed over to me on my deathbed and I opened the door I looked better than I do most days at the office.

2. The House

When I called them, I was still lying atop the aforementioned tissue graveyard in despair and desperation. My kids room looked like a bomb, the dishes were still on the table and counter from the night before and the upstairs loo had no toilet paper. 

When they arrived, my room was clean, the kids' beds were made, laundry was put away, the dishwasher was running and I'd shuffled around the living room dryheaving and crying in order to vacuum before their car showed up.

So when they rushed over to me on my deathbed and I opened the door they were greeted by Martha Stewart.

3. The Kids

I needed their help with the kids, as I just couldn't handle working from home AND getting the kids to and from school without use of the car (I can't drive here yet, Stroke) So they arrived at the door and I welcomed them in on my way out to walk the kids 1.5 miles to their school and back. I'd already made the kids beds and gotten them ready for school, lunches packed and pick up instructions arranged. 

Come on in guys and make yourselves at home. I'll be back in an hour and a half.

4. They're still guests

Even though I've asked someone over to help, they were still guests. Dying as I was, how could I at least not make them a cup of tea? And some lunch? And a nice dinner of fresh pasta with a homemade cream sauce and foccacia garlic bread? WIth a nice salad?

I at least let them help with the dishes afterward, but this was more so because I had passed out in a chair after sitting down to taste it.

5. I'm so sorry

It may be unhealthy, but I tend to associate gratitude with guilt. Friends offered to come by and drive me to the hospital, but I felt too appreciative of their thought to possibly accept it. After having slept upstairs for an hour in bed while my colleagues were downstairs working at my dining table and entertaining my kids I lay there, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling above me. 

I can't be lying here while they are downstairs with my kids. It's just not right. I could really use the rest, though. I can't just do nothing though. Maybe I'll just give the washroom a quick clean. 

Okay, that's done. But while I'm here I'll just maybe throw in a load of towels downstairs. Then go play with the kids. Make them all some lunch. Or a snack. Maybe set up a proper little tea party for the kids. Check my email, respond to a few. Okay, yeah. I'll do that and then come back up to rest.

And this is how Alan and Shirley found me halfway down the stairs, clinging to the banister for dear life, panting like a wounded water buffalo and apologizing profusely to them for having them take care of my kids. They dragged me over to a living room chair, where I then sat and apologized every time they walked into the room.

6. Kids: food, water, play

The kids had been fed and watered, but were desperate for some attention and playtime. Usually I'd hand them the wiimote and tell them to have at-er with Netflix, but not when people were over!  Instead, out came the bane of all sick parents - play-doh and Lego.

Oh FML.

I threw out half the play-doh as I kept sneezing in it. I was horrified when Shirley got underneath my dining room table with a cleaning cloth to collect the play-doh shrapnel from under the table and chairs, prompting me to dive down onto my knees to do the same while saying 'I'm so sorry about this, you didn't have to do that, I'm sure the dog would have gotten it. I'm so, so sorry.'

The Lego then came out and I was guided back to my old-man-sleeping chair in the living room. I woke up just in time for the clean-up, and again dove to my knees to help with the gigantic collective explosion of Lego - with the idiotic, ass-hat suggestion that while we were cleaning it up anyway, we may as well sort it into color coded boxes. 

So Alan and Shirley had basically come over to watch me feed my kids and to sort through their Lego for, not kidding here, 2 hours.

7. I don't really take sick days at work

So Alan and Shirley worked from my house, with me and my raging illness and disease. How considerate of me, I know (hey, I made them a really nice tea!) Even according to them it was one of the most singularly productive work days of their professional lives - even with me cooking, cleaning, hacking and passing in and out of narcolepsy throughout. 

So out of the kindness of their hearts, they had come over to my house to help me out and I worked them harder than I do at the office.

8. It was time to finally go in to the hospital

There was no more avoiding it, I was flaring out of control and something had to give. I either would go to the hospital or, what gave would be me. 

Paul got home from London, walked in the door and rushed upstairs to check on me, after I had been forcibly put to bed by Alan and Shirley (very forcibly) and I jumped into panicked apologies for having worried him so much (he thinks I'm insane with this stuff - I'm pretty sure a therapist would have a field day with my guilt issues). I felt terrible. Terrible that he would have to drive me to the hospital, and likely wait with me. Terrible that he would have to drive Alan and Shirley home. Terrible that he was likely tired and terrible that he had worried about me during his time in London. I also felt terrible that I had let myself get to this state, despite promising him that I would have gone in to hospital much sooner.

He dragged me out the door, cutting off my frenzied apologies to Alan and Shirley after he helped me to lace my shoes as I laid on the floor. I'm quite sure I even apologized to my dog.

I can't help it at all, I feel so guilty when I'm sick. I'm being told right now by my husband that this isn't normal, but I'm not buying it. 

9. At the hospital 

The A&E doctor came to me within the packed ebola-breakout stadium style emergency room and I apologized (of course) for taking up so much of his time and bringing such as rare disease to him when he was so busy.

'Candace...' muttered my now getting impatient husband.

'Sorry. Thank you doctor, I really appreciate your help.'

'Caaaaandace...' came a warning growl from my husband.

The doctor assured me that it was fine, it's nice for them to deal with something different now and again, not to worry, they will get the right people in place to fix me up.

'Oh thank you, I'm sure it's fine and I'm just making a big deal out of nothing.'

'Caaaaandaaaaaace....'

Again the doctor assured me that it was fine - he was just going to have someone take my blood pressure -

'Okay, no worries - I'll do it!'

'CANDACE!'

Fiiiiiiiiiiine Paul. I'll just lay here and be sick.

For like, a week. I'd like to say that next time I'll take the help with grace and appreciation instead of apology and embarrassment. That I'll let people just take care of me and stop worrying so much about what everyone else needs at the time. That I will just let Alan and Shirley nurse me back to health or better, drag me into the hospital.

But I won't. We all know I won't.

10. Next time I'll probably also make them scones.

The Irish Hospital Incident

I’m not really sure where to start with this one, the entire stay in Irish hospital captivity has been so on-par with my usual level of bizarre that it’s a bit alarming. Not in itself, more so in the realization that this is destined to follow me wherever I go.

Where to start?

Well, my cat died.

I’ve blogged about our adorable, wonderful kitten Princess Zelda before, and have shared much of our too-short journey with her on Facebook. The jist of it is that we got her from a family home breeder for Maine Coons, not a proper, documented breeder. We didn’t know that there would really be a difference until we drove 1.5 hours to pick her up in Chippenham, and paid for a ‘rescue’. The poor thing smelled awful, had an eye infection, was sneezing and had such horrific ear mites (we didn’t know what they were at the time) that it looks as though coffee grounds were pouring out of her ears.

Well, we got Huar Huar off the street and Dermot from a restaurant menu, so it’s not like I could say no, despite Paul shaking his head frantically in the background.

We took Zelda home and immediately to the vet, and to the vet nearly every week thereafter.

We wanted so badly for her to make it, our lives became about fixing her in any way we could. Medication, steam showers, love flowing over her like you wouldn’t believe. Hydrating her with a syringe, sucking boogers from her nose, keeping her warm and the kids carried her around like a dolly while she just sat and purred in their arms.

But it just wasn’t enough.

See, the physiological reaction to stress (adrenaline, raised heart rate, rapid breathing, chemical release, etc.) can, in extreme situations, send me into a flare. I have gotten good at controlling it, but life doesn’t always go my way.

Earlier in the week I had started to feel a bit of a cold coming on. It was slightly alarming as I had had a chemo infusion a couple days prior, and had pushed myself harder than I should have. No matter, life doesn’t stop for a cold. Paul had a funeral to attend in London and he was reluctant to leave me with Zelda still at the vet and my showing signs of a cold, but it was important to us and he left to support a friend, as you do.

Well, things went downhill rather quickly once he got on the plane. My cold suddenly turned from sniffles to deep coughing and a bit of flare pain – this did not look like it was going to be good. My team in Ireland graciously came to work from my home to help me out as I walked 2.5 miles to drop off and collect the kids from school on Friday, then we worked like demons at my kitchen table until I got a call from the vet, Zelda could come home!

Thrilled, Lochie and I went to pick her up. She was mewing (for the first time!) and happy, though still not out of the woods yet. Fine, we were just happy to have her back in our arms.

But it didn’t last.

Around 9pm I screamed while on the phone with Paul. Zelda had been cuddling me under my chin and had suddenly went wild and scratched her way across my face and hair in a violent circle yowling and spitting at me. I sat up, holding my bleeding face and turned on the light as Shirley and Alan, who had been staying over to keep an eye on my sickness, burst into the room. Zelda was going crazy, spinning in a left circle clawing her way around my bed, then falling off with a thump and spinning around on the floor drooling and foaming at the mouth. It was terrifying, and as Kaitie ran into the room I wrapped Zelda up in a towel so she wouldn’t see it.

This was particularly hard for me to watch, as it was like seeing myself when I had my cerebellar stroke – it was the same loss of control and spinning to one side violently.  I choked back my emotions and we flew into action, finding an all-night vet to open for us a few towns away and Alan and I calling a taxi. We were so desperate to get her to help as I gripped her in the towel as she tried to maim me, howling like Satan himself as she did, that we threw on our shoes and ran out into the night to meet the taxi down the wooded lane just to get there moments faster.

It was Alan’s birthday, by the way. Happy birthday Alan. My bad.

We eventually made it to the vet, but it was too late to save her. She was having violent seizures every two minutes, had gone blind and deaf and had lost control of 2 of her limbs. She didn’t know where she was or who I was. I called Paul and we decided to hit her with everything they could – sedation, antibiotics, steroids (sound familiar?), she deserved to live.

The vet figured it would be worth a try to turn out the lights at one point to see if that calmed down the seizures, but all that happened was a feral, hysterical cat getting loose from the towel with us in a dark room with no windows, yowling and spitting like a demon. Alan heard us screaming from outside the room and opened the door to flood light on the two of us clawing at the walls looking for the light switches.

I sobbed through it, but there was nothing that could be done. The vet assured me that nothing was able to help her at this point, she was already ‘gone’ and all we could do was to make it painless.

So we did.

And it broke my heart as she was sedated and euthanized in my arms.

We tried. We really, really did.

I felt like a monster. I still do.

It’s hard to lose a family pet – but it was harder in my own mind, as she didn’t even get a chance to live. She died at 17 weeks old.

It gets infinitely worse. Her cause of death – an aggressive granulomas disease that shut down her organ functioning, including her brain, and caused a final stroke.

My kitten had my disease. And I killed her.

We went home, and my system went into meltdown. At 4 am I woke up in excruciating pain in the tops of my jaw, having to stumble for my morphine pills to try to settle it down. I texted Paul, but wouldn’t go into hospital until he was home for the kids, despite Alan and Shirley’s protests all day to go. They again wonderfully stayed at our home all day to look after the kids and I throughout my intense ‘sick guilt’ (a post for another day), and even other friends in Ireland threatened to drag me into hospital at Paul’s insistence.

I didn’t go. By the afternoon I was choking on the stuff coming up from my lungs and delirious with flare pain, but I still didn’t go.

I went as soon as Paul got back, and I’ve been in captivity for 5 days now.

I had read and heard about the extreme bed shortages in Irish hospitals, but had never in my entire life experienced anything like this. I’ve been to hospitals in Canada, America, Hong Kong, China, the UK and now Ireland – and this A&E completely blew my mind.

It was PACKED. We waited in the waiting room for about 40 minutes, which alone was a bit weird for me given my history. It was made entertaining, however, by the family of outrageously loud, obnoxious and gangster like Roma Gypsies playing violent rape-sounding music videos on their mobile phones with their feet up on chairs, shoes off and treating their wives and mothers like trash servants. This greatly disrupted the Sunday Morning Mass broadcasted on the big screen waiting room TV, a source of great distress for many in the waiting room that were too afraid of the Roma’s to say anything. Except Paul. I kept shushing him, sure he would be revenge murdered in the parking lot.

Regardless, we were brought in and passed through the A&E lined with beds so packed they were touching each other, the hallways lined single file with people being treated in armchairs and others waiting in some sort of holding pen hell of plastic backed office chairs connected to IV’s and casts.

It was like an EBOLA breakout makeshift stadium hospital.

I was brought in and checked over, the usual spark behind the student doctor’s eyes when they start to realize what they were seeing. Consultants were brought in and talk of rushing me to a ward, but I’d have to make do in the A&E until that could happen. No worries.

I was in a hallway armchair for 13 hours, hooked up to oxygen, steroid and antibiotic IV’s.

Not the safest or most sterile place to be for someone on chemo, even though I was wearing my SARS mask.

The treatment was fantastic and the doctors were great, it was just the environment that was lacking, and after 13 hours I was starting to lose it. The pressure building in my head from Neurosarc was hitting dangerous levels and I was debating making a nest for myself on the floor under my chair of blankets, toilet paper and my hoodie just to lay down and gain some sweet pressure relief. I told this to the nurses – they would try to find me a trolley bed, but some people had been waiting in chairs since SATURDAY (this was Sunday evening already), and there was a queue.

Captivity Journal Hour 10: am loving the oxygen, though my captives still won’t let me leave. They claim a ‘head consultant’ a cometh, though this may yet be as mythical as the Loch Ness Monster , London All Night Pharmacy and the Portrane Public Bus. Med students eying me up like fat kids outside a candy shop.

I’ve been given a cookie, though no instructions on how to eat this while wearing an oxygen mask. First attempt went quite badly, having inhaled cookie crumbs to already damaged lung. Suspect they are now keeping me as cannot trust me to preserve self.

Also sneezed in this thing. Quickly learned why you’re not supposed to do that.

I became desperate, and decided to self-discharge to fly back to London to go to my regular hospital there. The nurse wasn’t happy about that, and ran to get the head nurse, who said it was too dangerous for me to do that. She refused to take out my IV line, but changed her tune when she saw me watching youtube videos of how to do it myself and asking an intern for some gauze and tape.

She miraculously found me a trolley bed (I’d also fired off an email to the Irish Independent, which she also noticed over my shoulder).

Laying down on a tiny trolley bed in a packed and germ infested A&E was absolute bliss. I dared not complain, so many had it so much worse and the relief was immediate and sweet. We were lined up morgue style –

with all the beds touching and consultants only able to speak to you from the foot of the bed, nurses reaching over other patients to treat us.

It was feeling pretty Serbian down there, but I didn’t care. I was being treated, and getting exactly what I needed. Despite the hacking guy with pneumonia lying so close that our hands were brushing against each other. At least he was a nice guy.

After 29 hours in A&E, a bed on the rheumatology ward became available and I was zoomed up and the typical routine of non-stop consultants and med students commenced, each barely able to contain their excitement at what they were seeing. I continued to apologize profusely (it’s just in my Canadian blood) for using up so much of their time and resources during such a horrible bed shortage, but the head rheumatologist assured me that I shouldn’t apologize, they so rarely get an opportunity to see something like this.

Then the hospital REALLY took it up a notch.

They got in touch with my specialist team in London, who used to lecture at the teaching hospital here incidentally, and they want to joint-manage my care ongoing, as I’ve recently come to the area and it is likely that I will be there often.

Even though I had already been treated to suppress the majority of the flare, they wanted to do baseline CT’s, MRI’s, neurology consults, ophthalmology, immunology and pulmonology consults – so that they could deal with me appropriately and effectively the next time this happens to me.

I was assigned a nurse. A NURSE. In my ward room of 7 patients we had two students and one nurse in the room at all times. Adjusting my oxygen, pumping me full of steroids and antibiotics, interns were assigned to collect my notes from my five various London hospitals, with my main notes from the Royal Free. They were thrilled that I was happy to meet med students to chat and I spent TWO HOURS with their lead neurologist doing the most comprehensive examination and talk about my stroke, my neurosarc and everything in between that I have ever, EVER experienced.

They even discussed with me if I’d like to move my infusions to their hospital team so I wouldn’t have to travel to London and risk infection again (I have been instructed to wear a face mask the next time I fly or travel directly after chemo infusions).  I’m not ready for that as I don’t want to lose Dr Beynon, but will be speaking with him about it when I see him in a few weeks in London.

The hospital itself, once out of the A&E hellhole, was phenomenal. They made room for a bed for me on the ward, and gave me a bell to ring the nurses if I needed anything.

Or if I wanted to call for Florence Nightingale.

As usual I was productive and my friends were wonderful. Paul brought me the Xbox.

Dai Kai sent one of our team leaders from London to surprise me, and to reassure him that I was going to live as he couldn’t make it himself.

I hobbled back down to the A&E waiting room so I could get internet reception to blog and finish legal documents for work that were due the next day. I took conference calls from my bed on oxygen and even hired someone from my bedside (awkward, but time was of the essence!)

Paul jailbroke me this evening to go for a pub dinner with him and the kids, and I’m waiting, begging to go home. They have killed the flare, and the infection is nearly dead as well.

And my roommates are getting to be a bit much.

One clipped her toenails with scissors. I was hit by one from across the room.

Another prayed for me at my bedside with the daily communion woman.

Having a shower on the ward was akin to be sexually assaulted by the way too close shower curtain. I spent more time batting it off of me than I did washing my hair, and in the end I didn’t know if I should press charges or leave a tip.

But then this woman happened:

A Polish woman, speaking no English whatsoever, was brought up to our ward. Her daughters were with her, obviously convincing her to stay and listen to the doctors and nurses, they would see her tomorrow.

She was PISSED.

This woman was passive aggressive to the extreme – refusing to interact with the nurses or doctors, scowling at the rest of us and refusing to take any medication at all. Fine, her choice, whatever. But then she refused to sleep. REFUSED. They tried getting translators, but she wouldn’t talk to them. They got her daughter on the phone, but she refused to speak to her. The nurses were begging her to lie down and go to sleep, so the rest of us could sleep as well.

Now, as she refused to use her bed, I was awoken at 4am by the sound of her scraping her chair over to MY bed.

Yes, that’s my knee and that’s her beside it. You know, just to hang out and stare at me over my shoulder like a creeper.

I was initially alarmed that she was coming to join me, so I aggressively star-fished. The nurses returned to talk to her gently, trying to persuade her to leave my bedside and return to her own. No dice. They even tried to pull my curtain around me but couldn’t get it around her chair as she HUNG ON to the end of my bed rail, determined to stay where she was. After about 10 minutes of them pleading with her they forcibly dragged her chair away from my bed as she rocked me back and forth in a clawing and defiant attempt to stay put.

And yes, I genuinely considered a flatulence based defense.

She then camped out in the toilet next to me, which the nurses also weren’t okay with. Another 10 minutes of lights and her yelling with while they convinced her to leave the loo to finally return to her bed. She still refused her bed (seriously, patients in A&E right now would KILL for that bed) and sat up in her chair, staring at me and the patient across from me (who was equally creeped out) until the nurses closed our curtains again and made jokes with me about Rohipnol.

She’s now back in the bathroom giggling like a lunatic.

I think I’m going to hold my pee for now.

…

…

…

Nope. Can’t do it. I’m going in.

Pray for me.