What a shit show.

On Saturday I drove us to a wedding in Surrey
I drove like an arsehole and got us lost on the way there, and on the way back. If we had set off to get to Uzbekistan we would have done less mileage.
The bride wore white, I wore trainers.
The brides mother wore green the colour of my face.
The location was an Abbey and the food was abundant.
There were crates of booze but I chose to drink orange juice. I shouldn’t drink orange juice, but the trauma of the journey meant I made bad decisions.
I paid the price on Sunday. Breathless and feeling like shite.
On Monday I arrived at the dry cleaners less than fabulous. After two hours the nurse called an ambulance.
I was stretchered into A & E. Canulas and blood pressure monitors. Blood tests and ECG for the heart. My dear old heart was flipping and flopping. Doctors stood at the end of the bed like a very bad episode of ‘Casualty’
I started vomiting, so badly they gave me an anti nausea drug.
The anti nausea drug was repeated and my body started jumping like I was doing St. Vitus’ Dance, (also known as Sydenham’s chorea), it’s a neurological disorder characterized by involuntary movements. And boy were my movements involuntary.
I finally fell asleep.
I was woken at 10.00 to be moved to the Acute Medical Ward.
Bed H14.
It was Monday night.
I had a nurse from Birmingham who was sent to me by Angel Gabriel.
She was calm and kind and had dealt with old ladies.
I was given an intravenous diuretic.
Before you could say pass me the commode I had soiled the bed.
Now I’m told it’s normal but when you are me there’s nothing normal about shitting the bed in a ward with three other people.
I cried at the humiliation of it all.
The Brummy beauty, changed my gown ( As in a hospital cotton “A” line jobby not a red velvet number for the Oscars). Changed my bed sheets, tucked me in and off she went.
Within half an hour my body was revolting and the same thing happened.
I cried.
She changed my gown.
She changed the sheets
She wiped my arse.
I cannot tell you the degradation of being washed down by a young woman behind blue curtains.
‘It happens all the time.’ She said ‘I don’t see the bum I see the person’ she said calmly.
She left to tend to the other patients.
And then before you could say pass me the commode it happened again.
‘It’s only a skid mark’ she whispered.
I asked for a spray to freshen the air.
The Brummy beaut said she couldn’t smell it. I think she was being kind. And then she stood behind me, hand akimbo ready to catch any more escaping clinkers.
I cannot begin to tell you the embarrassment I felt. I know I can’t be the first person who has ever soiled the bed but it’s my arse and my shit and my shame.
New bed sheets, my derrier cleaned, I perched on the side of the bed, afraid to move in case…….
I asked for Immodium to stop the damage, and then Esmerelda the nurse offered me another bag of intravenous diuretic.
‘Are you fucking mad.’ I said.
Esmerelda opened a bin, and with a smile, dropped the diraretic bag into it.
I was dishcharged at 5.00.
Exhausted and feeble.
I lay around on Tuesday until the ambulance was called again as my heart was flipping and flopping again.
Into A & E.
My Brummy nurse kissed me and told me she hadn’t wanted to see me ever again.
And then Rt 9.00pm a very young, tired doctor, explained the medication to me and told me I could go home. It’s Friday now and I’m on antibiotics for a chest infection which had cause all the complications.
I feel sick and sad.
I want my life back. I want to be messing around with the old git like I did last year. But those days are gone. I have to grasp my new reality. And I’m struggling, really struggling.
It’s 2.45. and I’ve got as much sleep in me as an insomniac hamster.
On top of all this we have the circus of Farage and his Reforming monkeys.
On top of that we have The Orange Buffon and his army of fascists.
On top of that we have Angela Rayner being attacked mercilessly because they have been trying to get her out for ever.
On top of that some arsehole drove into my car – a hit and run – whilst I was at the dry cleaners. The insurance company wanted £700 excess. I screamed down the telephone the poor woman getting a weeks worth of frustration in 4 minutes.
I took it to my garage and my man fixed the car.
I cried. He said ‘I don’t want your money. Give us a kiss.’
So I did, tears streaming down my face.
I have released a lot of fluids over the last week. I feel whingey and mingey
I feel witless and shitless.
I feel ropey and dopey.
BUT this too will pass and I know I’ll be a lot better tomorrow and the day after. By Monday I’ll have a bit of a spring in my step.
I looked up life without dialysis and I would have but weeks to live so I have no choice but to shut up and put up. And I will.
Once this fistula has matured I am joining the gym.
I will swim.
I will use the jacuzzi.
I will sit in the steam room;
I will relax in the sauna.
I will get a bit of my body back. I may have shrivelled kidneys but I’m not dead yet.
Thank you Brummy Queen for your alchemy; you turned my shit into gold and I’ll never forget that.