Getting old is not for cissies.

I’m not alone in feeling the enormity of Trumps victory. It was the last thing I needed what with the grey clouds and soggy damp. The alarm went off this morning at 7.30 and I climbed out of bed bent double with the realisation of the American dream.
I’d stayed up till 3.30 but the MAGA spectacle turned my stomach. My microbiome is buggered from too many drugs as it is so the cocktail of hyperbole and oleaginous Trumpisms took it’s toll, I’ve had ebloodynuff.
I am suffering.
It all started three weeks ago.
I had q blood test.
Unpacking the papayas and ochre and the phone jangled.
‘Your potassium levels are too high you need to go to A&E.’
The doctors voice was monosyllabic.
”Why?’ I balled.
‘You are in danger of a heart attack.’
And so without a bag and further ado the old git threw me in the car and off we went to Pembury hospital.
And so began the second chapter of my hospital drama.
In a ward I was surrounded my consultants and doctors, nurses and phlebotomists who pulled down my clothes and put their heads together to discuss just how ill I was and explained to me, in no uncertain terms, that they were plling me out of the mire.
Here we go again.
Heart failure, kidney failure, edema and various diabetic fuck ups.
The shame, the guilt the humiliation of being out of control. The fear the anxiety of being told that my mismanagement had resulted in destroying my vital organs.I was told I would have a catheter and an intravenous solution to get the water out of my body. I was told I would be in for days and that I could only be released once they had managed my poor ailing body.
I cried, no I wept, at the state of my being.
I didn’t want to write about any of this but it’s better out than in and if you dont want to read it I understand. I’m writing for me and my wearisome self.
I was moved to room 18 on the second floor. Terry, the cleaner, said I was lucky to have the room with a window and trees upside. I tried not to make friends with the porters, nothing worse than merry patients who are on deaths door.
I was hooked up and incapacitated. Injections and a little paper cup full of drugs. Schlepping a catheter bag to the bathroom was novel, wearing a pink backless hospital gown and using their little white towels was a daily routine. Th nurses changed the sheets everyday and complained my room was cold because I kept the door open.
Visitations from experts interspersed with visits from friends and family exhausted me. Sleeping was almost impossible.
Thank God for ‘Slow Horses’ and Bafta films.
For ten days I was rebalanced and then finally I was released with dark blue bruises in my arms from two cannulas and sharp needles taking my blood.
‘You’re 75’ they said ‘This is what happens when you get old’
Balderdash. This is what happens when your diabetes gets out of control, you’re stressed out and hospital food is less than perfect. I didn’t complain because the NHS has enough to do without the arsehole in room 18 passing comments on cold porridge and plastic water jugs.

I was finally released last Saturday. Breathless from a weedy heart and dizzy from lying in bed. I was given a bag of drugs. I howled trying to read the small print. I have to take little white pills and a big white horse tablet. I have to drink a litre of water a day and I have to come to terms with the fact that nothing is spontaneous. I have to think about everything. I sleep with a little light on because I’m anxious of the dark and Donald Trump has made my life even more uncomfortable.

Today, out of nowhere, my guts decided to rebel. So now I have to call the medicine help line to find out which meds I cannot give up and which ones are going to make me shit myself.
Praps I’ll die in two and a half years, praps I’ll heal myself sufficiently so that I can live a vaguely normal life. Everybody has an opinion, everybody has a suggestion about what I should do, everybody is on my case, and for that I am grateful but I haven’t got the energy to take any of it on board.

I’m not angry, any more, with the allopathic route,I just wish my weedy old body could accept the drugs.

And so as Trump triumphantly simpers his way to his 47th presidency I watch in disbelief knowing that Kemi Badonoch now has our best interests at heart as she heads up a Tory party that is as effluent as my bowels.