Friday, 2 February 2018
Pleural Effusion Drainage
Yep this is NOT how you want to spend the afternoon.
Let's back up to Monday.
We hired a truck and transported a lot of our shit to the storage. I was mostly fucking useless what with smashing out my shoulder dragging my weight into said truck, and then there was the wee problem of not being able to breathe. Fuck it indeed.
My Girl and Stevie sweated through their clothes a number of times and did extremely well not to kill each other cos of significant differences in brain waves and methods. They were puce with effort and exhaustion and by 7 o'clock we sat down to a dreadful dinner of Dominos pizza, cos we are still newbies and don't know anywhere local that delivers decent food.
We were all back on board early Tuesday and as it was early I managed to walk a few trolleys to the storage room but that was IT.
Wednesday Stevie went off to golf - a much deserved break from the grunting and my whinging. I had a few errands to run and 'run' is an appalling exaggeration. My shoulders dropped and I reckon I looked like some old bag lady dragging my sorry arse around the streets and then I was home into the aircon watching the dreadful 'Married at First Sight' shit which has become my dirty little afternoon secret. I was feeling very poorly.
I was fighting for breath and of course I knew, in my heart of hearts, that a fucking Pleural Effusion had reared its ugly fucking head just to fully round out the last of the side effects of the meds. Up until then I had been bragging about the fact that I had side stepped that fucker!
Thursday morning I rang Jane the GP and Stevie took me cos we both knew the news was gonna be shit. He dropped me off and went to park and I made perhaps the most ridiculous decision of 2018 and walked up the stairs. Yeh there is a lift, but I was still in denial.
I staggered into reception unable to speak apart from whispering my name, I was beetroot red and sweating up a storm and clearly looked so unwell that even the receptionist, not noted for her awareness or empathy came out and asked me if I was OK. Bugger me! At that point I knew things had gone to hell in a hand basket.
Into Jane's room and she took my blood pressure and it was 210 on 110 and that made me panic. I am used to a gentle 110 on 70 or 80. She had a fiddle around and sent me off for a chest Xray pronto, which in all honesty I knew I should have asked for about 2 weeks ago.
I had a little cry at the Xray place and then we trooped back to see Jane. Yep the report was in and Peural Effusion was it FUCK! So she rang Dr Greg who Stevie had already teed up and as everyone was on the same page a meds change was agreed and the slurping out of the mud was sorted.
No I did not sleep well last night.
Mater Private here we go.
We got lost getting there cos we are bushy yokels and had to go around a couple of times to find the entrance, but then we were there Elliott Early and yippee to beating the lunch time rush. In I went, stupidly unable to work out the backless gown, no don't think some glamorous number fit for the red carpet, and they took one look at me and stuck some oxygen tubes in my nose and a monitor on my finger, sat me down and told me rest my head on the pillow. The Nurses were lovely and all introduced 'emselves and told me exactly what was going on and then in sauntered Dr Robert something, who I don't think was all that amused when I called him Bob. He mostly spoke to the nurses and jabbed me full of anaesthetic which he said might sting a bit, and when I reacted he said something pithy like, 'Oh aren't you sensitive' as he kept on shoving shit about. He installed the canula slurpy thing and then just fucked off, never to be seen again.
The nurses gave me a running tally of how much shit was pouring outta me and when the Litre mark was reached, even though that was the target, one of 'em started hand pumping the thing for added suction, and I had to dredge up my Labour Breathing techniques and yes I will admit to swearing a bit but I didn't punch anyone or use the C word.
Finally we were all done. They applied a plaster thing as I knew they would cos no-one ever believes that I am allergic to adhesives and then there was that wonderful 'TA-DA' moment when I got to have a look at the shit that had been squashing up my left lung. And shit is not right, it just looked like very yellow pee, like happens after you have been been on the piss and so downed a handful of Berocca. Yep it was pretty yellow and I spent a moment thinking about how all that had fitted inside of me. Quickest weight loss of all time I reckon.
Out for an ordinary chest Xray just to make sure that Dr Disappear didn't puncture anything important and then I was outta there.
Seriously in out shake it all about in less than an hour and half. The drain thing was I reckon max 20 minutes. The Nurses did keep remarking how quickly it was draining so it might take longer for shit less keen to escape, or maybe they were just blowing wind up my whatsit.
Anyway I am bloody pleased it is all over now, although I am underwhelmed with the results so far, cos I am still having trouble getting a lung full and am still coughing a bit, but tomorrow is another day.
One of the nurses, OK I admit that she was the apprentice and didn't know her arse from her elbow, said people almost never had to come back for a second round, and even though in my head she didn't have a clue, I am gonna believe her.
It has not been the worst day of my life.