A trip to St. Bart’s

Even though the title of my blog is quite pessimistic and negative I assure you I am not that bad, actually I just like the word “ballbag”. Yes sports fans, I am that immature sometimes. In fact any euphemism for a man or woman’s nether regions and I will usually be found stifling a giggle somewhere. The cruder the better as far as I’m concerned. To be honest in many respects I am very lucky, for example having such a good network of support behind me in the forms of friends, family and even near enough strangers who have been through the same shite I am due to go through. To top it off, I also have a fantastic gastroenterologist and his team that I trust with my life and they have worked wonders for me.

I have had an interesting day today, some aspects good, some crap. I had to be at St Bart’s hospital at 11am today for an appointment with my consultant. I arrived fashionably late as it was and went direct from the car park to the public toilets next to it, leaving my poor mate Jamie, a fucking diamond after putting up with me today, who had come with me for giggles to fend for himself outside. So twenty minutes later, I emerge what felt like a stone lighter. Still I feel the need to apologise to friends and family, even though they know the score, for delaying things, getting stuck in the loo, dropping arrangements at the last minute. I still feel like a twat though even though I can help it.

So onward to outpatients! WAIT wait wait, no I’m going to the nearest toilet instead. It was around now I realised I was going to have a hefty job ahead of me so once I hunkered down in my chosen grotty cubicle I text Jamie and told him to make himself comfortable and pointed him in the direction of the cafe and shop. Ok, so by this point I’m now half an hour late, there I now way of ringing as I’ve tried that before and I don’t think the message gets through to the intended parties, as they give you half an hour’s grace as it is. So now cracking on for an hour late, I had a brainwave, using my newfangled smart phone I emailed my consultant and apologised profusely and informed him I was stuck about 40m from him in a toilet because of my misbehaving insides. He said “Not to worry, I’m still here so come up if you want.” I cracked open a can of man up, clenched tightly and waddled up a floor to outpatients.

Jamie by now must have been on the 803,434th level of angry birds the amount of time I had spent in the shitter, and now he had to wait more bless him (note to self: I owe Jamie a few beers). So first I got weighed, can’t quite remember the exact number but around the 68kg mark. Result, the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and means I’ve put on nearly under 2 stone since being told I had to put weight on for the op. I then went in to see my consultant, who remarked how good I was looking now I had put a bit of weight on and he was happy with how prepared I seemed to be for the impending op. I did bring up the fact I have a resting heart rate of around 110 and I never used to have a problem in getting it to reach 210 in a gym a few years back. So off for an ECG and some bloods to check for an overactive thyroid. Somehow during all this time I managed to fight the urge to run to the nearest toilet even though walking usually speeds up my digestive system. ECG done, and of course slightly tachycardic with a heart rate of around 111. Now of for the bloods.

Now for the graphic detail, due to earlier events I was feeling pretty shit as it was, well I say shit. I felt like I had been raped with a cactus. I had also lost what looked like enough blood to perform a small batch of transfusions in 3rd world countries or actually if I had been raped with a cactus, possibly laced with razors. So now for removal of more blood, good times, at least this method was a little more clinical. So I’m necking a bottle of lucozade when the nurse comments “ooh you’re thirsty!” no I’m actually just chugging this so I don’t black out in your chair. Her face immediately changes to “oh fucks sake not one of you” however I fill up 3 vials of treacly blood with nothing more eventful than a fuzzy head.

Kudos to poor Jamie who has done nothing but sit in waiting rooms for an hour and 45 minutes. He has probably completed every game on his iPhone, possibly the whole app store? I’m so fucking lucky to have such a good circle of supportive mates. Luckily the 45 minute drive home was uneventful other than every dickhead driving slowly when you’re dying to get home quickly.

Anyway, head down and crack on!

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One thought on “A trip to St. Bart’s

  1. Sometimes it makes me thoughtless (speechless for the mind when reading….) when I read that other people have the exact same situations happening to them on a regular basis. I love hearing it, just as much as I hate the experience.
    As for the cactus rape – I hear ya. BRUTAL!
    And also, those dicks that don’t realize you need to get to a bathroom – SPEED THE HELL UP!! 🙂
    Thanks for sharing.

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