Okay, so I braved not only the stairs today, but also the frosty glare of morning as I queued outside my GP’s surgery in the hopes of being seen reasonably quickly in the “No appointment needed between 8:30am and 10:30am” slot. Luckily, it worked and I was back home within an hour, for once. Much inward rejoicing was done.
The point of this exercise was to change my medication as being violently ill for days on end is not my idea of time well, or indeed happily, spent. This means that my current list of painkilling fun now is as follows:
2 x 50mg Tramadol Hydrochloride, 4 times a day,
2 x 500/10mg Co-Dydramol, 4 times a day, and
1 x 400mg Ibuprofen, 3 times a day.
I also have antidepressants (to work against the pain on my nerve endings, and also to help me fight against the pain wanting to drag me down) and the pill to take, so I rattle along quite nicely when I can bring myself to move. The ibuprofen, I must admit, are particularly stylish in their neon pink shells. It’s all a bit 1980s in my makeshift medicine cabinet.
It’s the big day (orthopaedic consultant appointment - what else?) tomorrow. I’m nervous and hopeful, but trying desperately hard not to pin all my hopes on this one man in case he doesn’t have the answer for us. It’s difficult, though. In fact, it gets increasingly difficult daily due to the fact that I just can’t shake this incessant pain and I can clearly see the day when I will not be able to face those stairs again, leaving me stranded here. Not the most cheerful prospect I’ve ever faced.
I’m tired to the depths of my poor aching bones. I feel ever so frail and weak from being so ill the last few days and my glasses, only brought out for the computer and reading when I’m tired in normal circumstances, have become a permanent feature perched upon my poor nose. What a picture I must be, laying here, swathed in a giant patchwork quilt lovingly restored by my mother and an almost equally giant weetabix-esque jumper on permanent loan from my boyfriend, with those afore-mentioned glasses adorning my paler than usual face. Ah, beauty, you come in many forms.
My man is sure to crack a smile in a few minutes when I apologise for my weariness and trudge towards our bedroom. It’s pretty certain that I’ll get at least a hug to send me on my way, so I can’t complain. I do love my cuddles.
I wish I had some hope that I will wake up tomorrow feeling a) rested, b) smiling and c) without pain. Maybe if I try ever so hard I will be able to wish myself into a smile upon awakening, but I really don’t remember the last time I felt either of the other feelings - upon waking or otherwise.
Sleep now, worry later - a new motto? Let us see.
