Morphine-motion

A blog post fuelled by morphine, extreme exhaustion, and an impending removal of ones kidney, ability to drink and anything else remotely linked to fun is very probably a blog post that one should file as a draft and never publish. But this is also linked to a blog post that someone read to me recently about “fucks that we should give” and right now that fluttering sound that you can all hear is the last fuck that I had to give fluttering away into the distance ! Last fuck to give has fucked off, to the same place as my last dose of patience !

You see, I’ve been laying in this hospital bed for a week now, one solid week. I’ve been pumped full of a delightful cocktail of morphine, augmentin, gentamicin, codine, claxane, and some other vile shit with equally vile side effects, akin to the very infection that they are supposed to rid my little body of. Am I feeling sorry for myself right now, abso-fucking-lutely !

I had a renal abscess in 2011, my kidney has never recovered and for the last 5 years I’ve had kidney infection after kidney infection, more kidney stones then shingle in my garden and I’m on first name terms with most of the HCA’s on the urology ward of our local hospital. The symptoms were sporadic for the initial four years, but this last year they’ve been accelerating quicker than Kim Kardashian’s arse size, and I’ve now got hospital notes thicker than an 80 year old war veterans !

In all seriousness the chronic condition that I have had dumped on me is now becoming unmanagable. Working in the Westend, travelling four hours a day, in a stressful role, with a chronic condition is fucking tough. I’m in my thirties, I’m desperate to lead a normal life, I don’t want to be sick, I want to go out to lush restaurants with you and get shitfaced on hearty wines.  I don’t want to dampen the mood of nights out by rushing to A&E, in a sweaty vile state. I’m tired of waking in the middle of the night, alarmed, peeing blood and having to sit in the shower with the warm water running over me in an attempt to soothe the raging kidney and bladder pains, only to have to drag my body raging with another kidney infection to work, smiling and pretending I’m not in agony, in fear that my boss may clock on to the fact that he has employed a sick-note fucking liability, the type of employee that I used to loathe !

I’m tired now, tired of battling this for 5 years alone and after begging and sobbing on the surgeons desk they have agreed to remove this beast from my body.

They won’t let me return home until the infection has cleared and the haematuria has ceased, we aren’t there just yet, but with more canulars and holes in my arms than one of Southend’s finest junkies I’m hopeful I shall be home shortly.

I find out in the next few days the operation date. For now I’m hanging in limbo, alone, did I mention that ?

It’s great being on this ward though. being surrounded by poorly ladies and watching those that love them call in for them, to sit by their bedsides, holding their hands. Seeing that all around me has roused feelings of jelousey, wanting someone by my side going through this, someone telling me it will all be ok, fuck me – someone that actually cares enough to actually just be here. Wanting you to make me laugh.

Right opposite me I have an amazingly brave lady that’s just had her kidney removed, and similar to me she is now in the 6 week wait, waiting to find out if the “dodgy area” was indeed cancer-style-dodgy or just plain old dodgy. Post op she gave me hope, she was positively chipper, excellent I thought, this isn’t so bad after all, I can do this, alone ….

Then a scene akin to the exorcist began to unravel, in front of my rather nervous eyes … Writhing in pain as the anaesthetic and epidural eventually left her body, dripping in sweat, screaming out at night in agony,  buzzers buzzing and nurses rushing in, projectile vomiting, catheter bags bursting at the seams with blood stained urine hung by the bed, catheters being hopefully removed, putting them back after being unable to pee properly and going into retntion, more screaming, literally puking over her dinner, sleeping entire days … Severe constipation due to amount of morphine … Inability to get out of bed or even reach forward, shall I go on?

My fear and anxiety begins to rise. The operation that I thought was going to cure me is first going to drag me through this and I am terrified. Am I making the right decision? I just wanted to chew this over with you. I didn’t want to be frantically Googling at 3am from a hospital bed the risks attached to a radical nephrectomy. I just wanted to talk to you. But you didn’t answer when I called and it took you a day to reply to my text yesterday so I didn’t want to bother you again.

The surgeon visited me today, he wanted to express that this is not necessarily going to cure me and my condition, he’s said this before and I’ve clung to his hope that it would cure it, but now, right now I’m shitting my hospital pyjamas that it might not, and I’m gonna be one kidder down for nothing … I’m going to risk not being able to have children and I may not be fixed.

The beautiful being that is my boss called me yesterday, he faked a little concern, but the sheer inconvenience of my hospital admission and absence from work was thick in his tone and clung to every syllable. The conversation ended with him reminding me that due to the delightful fact I’ve only been with the company for 6 months I wouldn’t be entitled to any sick pay. Perfect. Another thing to keep me from sleeping, alongside the clanging of commodes wheeling through  the corridors to fellow patients in the “wee hours” ! Pun very much intended !

I’ve cried, a lot. I’m terrified, I’m alone, and I have all of this to face. Whilst none of that is your fault, it’s part of me and what I’m going through at this moment. I’ve held your hand through some dark times and I would do it again in a heart beat, but it is a bitter pill to swallow knowing that it’s not something you are able or willing to do for me.

Right now I’m about as fucked off with you as I could possibly ever be. Last fuck has fucking zoomed right outta here with the pedestal that you have been straddling for the past two years.

Your obligatory, keep her sweet, just doing my bit texts don’t constitute caring about me. You text me no less than a week ago telling me that you love me. You are all I’ve wanted this past week. This isn’t a guilt trip. Far from it. This is me hoping that you did mean what you said.  Every time I woke to see you hadn’t called or text, with tears in my eyes, having spent the past two weekends together again, only to be left alone and so unwell, I couldn’t  help but feel totally and utterly used.

I don’t want anything from you, I’m totally independent, I just wanted you, I didn’t want to feel scared, to be alone, I needed you to calm me. But after everything we have been through you couldn’t do that. I’m heartbroken.

So, off you went again, with the last fuck to give and the pedestal, which unfortunately hadn’t been shoved up your Arse ! But this time I am what is technically known as Romeo-fuckng-done !

I can do alone, even with all of this, and I’ll be fine, but I’m not going to be used to fill gaps in your life and then dumped by the roadside like the clapped out kidney I’m trying to get shot of myself.

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