Well, two days orf really. Yesterday I had a day off from blogging, because, quite frankly, I couldn’t be arsed (sorry!), and today I had a day orf visiting muvver, as I was feeling more than my usual knackered and had a kller headache. It’s the first time I’ve not visited since this stay in hospital (so that’s three and a half weeks), and I didn’t miss a day of the previous stay, so I’ve been trying not to feel too guilty.

I’ve been snuggled up on the sofa all evening with Bones, so that’s been very nice. He’s getting a bit more tolerant of the others, but only Eric will stand his ground, the others still dare not approach!

On the theme of days orf, there will soon be more to follow - stand by tomorrow for a Big Announcement (I can almost feel your excitement…!)

Four days in - and it’s definietly better than 4 days in after Eric’s arrival. Bones has had a good old stomp around the whole house now, engaged in a semi bad tempered exchange with Button through the laundry basket, terrified Pickle (again, but remember, she’s a wuss) and largely ignored Eric. So, quite encouraging really.

And on the Mum side, she was a bit more lucid this evening, and I have had another good chat with one of her doctors, and as a result, have drafted a letter to all and sundry (GP, psychiatrist, peeps at t’other hospital, Ol’ Uncle Tom Cobley and all…) - to let everyone know what’s happening, so they can sing from the same proverbial hymn sheet. Optimistic? Maybe! Only time will tell.

And finally - in (belated) response to Marshy’s question concerning the identity of the island in my vat of custard - it was a peach sponge pudding, and very yummy too!!!

Today, Bones met all three of our cats.

First, Eric. He wandered into the sitting room (all under close supervison you understand), and tucked into Bones’ biscuits. Bones voiced his disapproval. Eric ignored him, had his fill and pottered off again.

Then - by accident - all three. Bones wandered off (accompanied) to explore the dining room. Pickle watched from the dining room table; Eric from his chair by the radiator. When Bones hit the kitchen, they both jumped down to investigate. Cue a good bit of growling, which alerted Button to the goings on.

Picture the scene : it’s a long, thin kitchen, and Bones is down the far end of it. Eric is half way up the kitchen looking bemused, Button is at the doorway between the kitchen and dining room looking aghast, and Pickle is hiding behind Button looking like a wuss. Bones sums up the situation, and lets rip with the most impressive string of feline obscenities I have ever witnessed. Three sets of under two year old eyes widen (I think they learned a few new phrases) and then three sets of paws took off at a rate of knots.

And to think I was worried about them picking on Bones!!!

His Gottleness arrived today, and to celebrate, a load of us went out for a bite to eat.

Well, several bites actually - starter AND main course AND dessert.

Now when I ordered my dessert, I expressed a desire for *lashings of custard*. And oh boy, did I get it…

Tonight we’re off to the music quiz in jolly old Loogabarooga, leaving Bones shut in the sitting room (it’s warmer in there), and the others with the run of the rest of the house. Eric met Bones briefly earlier - think Vivian from the Young Ones encountering Alf Garnet. This ain’t gonna be easy!!

In light of top doc’s words yesterday, and the implication that it will be a good 2/3 weeks minimum before Mum comes home, I spent a large part of yesterday afternoon thinking about Mum’s cat Bones. Bones is a tottery old chap of 18, who we have been looking after in his own home since all this began. Bearing in mind Mum’s only had a 2 week and a 3 day spell at home since the end of March, he’s been getting very lonely and increasingly clingy. I had to pop into the vets yesterday afternoon to collect some stuff for him, and quite by chance his vet was there, and had some time to talk to me. This was vital, as I knew damn well Mum would trust his judgement over mine any day, and she had expressed concern over my bringing Bones to ours when we’d discussed it before.

Vet said he thought it was worth a try, and that perhaps our three tearaways would respect Bones’ age and leave him be. At any rate, I would, if necessary, be able to keep Bones separate in the spare room, and he would still get a lot more company than he’s getting at the moment.

So, last night, Bones came to stay. And with the more than miraculous help of a Feliway plug in diffuser (kind of like aromatherapy for cats), he’s adapted to the spare room, and tonight, the sitting room. He’s enjoying lots more cuddles, and from a purely selfish point of view, it’s so much easier having him here. Pickle, Button and Eric know something’s up - and I’ve left his blanket out for them to sniff (you should have seen the face Button pulled, shame I didn’t have a camera handy), and depending on how things go over the next few days, I may risk introducing them, one by one. Cantankerous old octogenerian cat vs three teenage hooligans.

Eeek. A boring, restful weekend? Nah, wouldn’t know what to do with myself!!

It’s been a long, long day. But - thank God - fruitful. At the eleventh hour.

By 10.30 this morning I had heard diddly squat from top doc’s secretary, so I rang her. He was, apparently, on his main ward round, and would be seeing Mum straight after, so she suggested I got myself to the hospital and waited with Mum.

So I did. I got to the hospital for 11.15, and sat with Mum, and dealt with her anxiety (easily on a par with last night’s), and waited. And waited. And waited. A pharmacist came and went - just checking her tablets ready for discharge (you’re not discharging her). A nurse told me they were liaising with social services ready for her discharge (you’re NOT discharging her). I ended up speaking to Mum’s CPN in desperation to try and up the proposed social services cover (just one visit a day as it’s the weekend - and based on their assessment of last time they saw her, which was over 2 months ago - no the CPN didn’t think it was enough either, but, like me, was geting nowhere fast) - and still I sat and waited. For just over 2 hours.

Then, just like Mr Ben, the top doc appeared. And listened. Actually listened. And then properly explained.

For starters, he agreed that Mum’s case was complicated, and that they couldn’t just consider things in isolation. He went on to say that he was in no hurry to send Mum home, and it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. He then explained that they can’t in any way consider doing Mum’s throat op while she’s still on the steroids for the colitis, because steroids can cause unnecessary risks (why hadn’t anyone told me that before???). Apparently, you have to be weened off steroids, and in Mum’s case, this will take 6 weeks. Within that time, he felt it was vital to start building her up in readiness. So - he would arrange for Mum to be moved to his ward, and stay in until AT LEAST the end of next week, and in that time, she would have a tube fitted, from her nose straight through to her stomach, so they could get extra nutrition into her. This would also give them the chance to make sure that the colitis has indeed settled, and that Mum is truly better from that point of view. When they eventually do come to dischage her, he felt that some sort of interim rehab care would be appropriate at one of the community hospitals. Then, when she finally comes home (with the correct level of support), district nurses can come in to do the feeding through the tube thing. THEN - so we’re probably up to mid/late July by now - she can have her throat op.

Finally. A plan.

I could have wept with relief.

Of course, and I’m really trying hard not to be too pessamistic here, but speaking from experience, it still has the capacity to go tits up. Top doc is now on holiday for a week, so I hope nobody makes any different decisions in his absence. Already the plan has faltered somewhat, as they’ve since decided she won’t be moving - not yet at any rate - because there’s c.diff on the ward she’s in, and they won’t move patients unless strictly necessary. On the plus side, she has already had the tube fitted (she hates it), and they should start the supplementary feeding tonight. And she’s considerably less anxious than she was this morning.

So - on the whole - result!!!

OK. Now I’m mad. Really, really, fucking MAD.

You may recall that I saw a doc/lackey on Tuesday. He promised both me and Mum that Mum would not be discharged while she still had diarrhoea, and that therefore, while they did more tests, she would not be discharged this week. You will also recall, that when she was admitted this time, they said it had obviously been a mistake to discharge her before, and that they’d make sure she was really OK this time around. And I think I have also blogged about seeing the top doc - her consultant - tomorrow - to discuss what’s wrong and what they plan to do about it.

Well, that was all bull-fucking-shit. Every pun intended.

My mobile rings just after lunch today. It’s the ward sister, telling me they’re discharging Mum tomorrow. I say no they’re not, and reiterate what the doc/lackey told me on Tuesday. Bear in mind that my latest information from Mum herself - as of the previous evening - was that Wednesday saw 3 bouts. Less, admittedly, but still nothing solid. I also said that I was due to come in Friday morning to discuss Mum’s case with top doc. She then said they’d delay discharge until Saturday. I let her go at this point, but after 10 minutes of getting more and more angry, rang back, and asked to speak to the doctor who’d made the discharge decision today. She bleeped him, and rang me back a bit later, and said that although Mum had told them things had *settled*, based on what I’d told them, they’d certainly keep her in over the weekend. At this juncture, I took the oportunity to remind them that I had requested a FULL social services review before discharge, as Mum was going to need a lot of support back home. And if I couldn’t be there, I at least wanted someone from social services to speak to me.

Fast forward to 6 o’clock this evening, and Chris and I get to the hospital to find Mum in one hell of a state because they’d told her she was being discharged the next day. She’s confused, distressed, terrified, largely incoherent, and it takes us an hour and a half to calm her down enough to be left. It transpires that yes, Mum had told them things had settled - ie, she wasn’t going 7/8 times a day and getting it everywhere - but she didn’t mention Wednesday, and they didn’t ask. At the time the doctor came round, she hadn’t even been to the loo, so who the hell knows whether she still had such loose motions or not?????

The nurse pops her head in when we get there, and says she’s up for review in the morning, and likely to be discharged. I point out that this is completely at odds with the last message I had from them. She doesn’t seem to know anything about it. As we leave, I point out - very calmly - that whilst I know they’re treating the physical condition, they HAVE to consider the patient’s mental health too, and that they had totally and utterly freaked her out.

So, tomorrow, instead of having a rational discussion about what is wrong with Mum, and what they plan to do about it, I have to fight for her to stay in until she’s better - and let’s get one thing crystal clear here - I don’t want Mum in hospital one minute longer than she has to be, but I also don’t want her home one minute earlier than she should be - not after she only lasted 3 days the last time they chucked her out too soon. Hey - that was a bank holiday weekend too - am I being cynical in thinking they just want to clear beds? I do not expect them to keep her in because of her mental health problems, but I do expect them to take them into consideration when telling her anything, and only send her home when she’s properly physically better.

And the worst thing? I have absolutely zero confidence that I’m going to succeed, yet have promised Mum that nothing will happen that isn’t in her best interests. Fuck.

Reading over my blogs of the last few weeks is such a depressing experience, I thought a little light entertainment was in order. A friend emailed this to me, and it gave me such a good laugh, I thought I’d share it :

The European Commission has just announced an agreement whereby English will be the official language of the European Union rather than German, which was the other possibility.

As part of the negotiations, the British Government conceded that English spelling had some room for improvement and has accepted a 5- year phase-in plan that would become known as Euro-English.

In the first year, s will replace the soft c. Sertainly, this will make the sivil servants jump with joy. The hard c will be dropped in favour of k. This should klear up konfusion, and keyboards kan have one less letter There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the sekond year when the troublesome ph will be replaced with f. This will make words like fotograf 20% shorter.

In the 3rd year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where more komplikated changes are possible.
Governments will enkourage the removal of double letters which have always ben a deterent to akurate speling. Also, al wil agre that the horibl mes of the silent e in the languag is disgrasful and it should go away.

By the 4th yer people wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing th with z and w with v. During ze fifz yer, ze unesesary o kan be dropd from vords kontaining ou and after ziz fifz yer, ve vil hav a reil sensi bl riten styl.
Zer vil be no mor trubl or difikultis and evrivun vil find it ezi tu understand ech oza. Ze drem of a united urop vil finali kum tru.

Und efter ze fifz yer, ve vil al be speking German like zey vunted in ze forst plas.

I really shouldn’t wallow, it’s not constructive, and it runs the risk of upsetting someone you never meant to upset. Hope you got my email JG -

Hating almost all pictures of myself is a relatively new thing, I blame a) getting older, b) getting fatter and c) looking seriously sleep deprived and frazzled all the time. Where oh where is that carefree lass of yesteryear? I’d like an airbrush for Christmas please.

So, what news today? Mum is going a bit downhill again, and they don’t really know why. More tests are prescribed, and I’m going to try and get an appointment with her consultant at the end of the week (he’s been away, and I have been dealing with his lackey - a very nice chap, but a lackey nevertheless). She’s really getting seriously depressed about all of this, and that hasn’t been helped by the news that it’s pretty damn unlikely that they’ll be able to get all the other bits and bobs done before discharging her - whenever that may be. Part of the reason is because they have to get the diarrhoea sorted before any other procedures are undertaken, but it’s mainly because the NHS is indeed crap and can’t possibly cope with a sensible request like that. Pah.

The one plus point today is that having seen the lackey at 4pm (and got permission from the sister to stay for an extra 15 minutes even though visiting was officially over), I have got home at a sensible time for once, and with Chris doing the evening Bones trip on his way back from footie, I don’t have to go out again. Unfortnately, I should be doing some other work for a meeting tomorrow night that I can’t really get out of without dying. Arse. Better go and get on with it then.

Well, I wish my bloody car would at least. I worked out today that since Mum went into hospital no. 2 on the 22nd April (so discounting the 9 days she spent in hospital no. 1), I have clocked up over 1000 miles just driving there and back, and spent over 60 quid on parking. So my bank account is running on empty.

All (well, those who have expressed an opinion) of my friends think a certain picture of me was good, and I wanted to run and hide when I saw it, so my self esteem seems to be running on empty.

Mum is having waaaaay more senior episodes than I feel either a) comfortable with or b) can be put down to excess hospitalisation trauma - in a nutshell, yesterday’s, had she had it at home, would have resulted in a hefty paracetamol overdose. Her CPN is due to visit tomorrow, and hopefully Mum will *perform* so she doesn’t think it’s me going round the twist. So my patience is running on empty.

Tomorrow, I find out (hopefully) if they’ll keep Mum in, or at least send her to hospital 3 for the other bits and bobs to be done, so she doesn’t have to face going back into hospital in a couple of months, and will fnally be able to eat properly, and therefore rebuild her strength faster. The doctor is very well intentioned, but hey, this is the NHS, so my optimism levels are feeling dangerously close to empty.

And finally, Mum - tactful as ever (think bull in china shop on crack) - tells me today that it would be such a shame if I never have children, as it would be sad if the family line died out with me, and that at least with Dad there are some good genes about. I asked her when the heck she thought I’d have time to look after a kid, and that the subject was closed.

Unfortunately, my tear ducts don’t seem to be running on empty.

Oh, I had such a lovely time at the janemeet yesterday, a wonderful blast of much needed normality in an increasingly shittingly depressing world. Yeah , I know. If I reckon spending time with blogringers is normal, life must be bad…

But it was.

There’s more to blog about on the Mum side, but I’ll leave that for tomorrow, as I may have a more complete picture to blog about. Plus, I’m knackered, so an early night is on the cards.

Oh, btw, for any of you who saw the new blog header with picture, and are now wondering where it is, I asked (not too politely I’m ashamed to say, but it has been one helluva day) Paul to remove it, ‘cos I hate pictures of me, and this was right up there with the worst of ‘em. Well, maybe not as bad as the one on JG’s blog, but I’ll get her for that later…

Yup, I have finally had to admit that my current lifestyle just won’t fit into my nice, neat little handbag (which was beginning to quite literally burst at the seams), and have invested in something that more closely resembles a sack. On the basis that one expands to fit the space available, I fully expect to be slinging a seven and a half tonne truck over my shoulder by this time next month.

I’ll apologise in advance for a lack of blog tomorrow evening; before all the recent hectivity Chris and I agreed to host the church’s annual general knowledge quiz (the regular chappie is on holiday), so although it’s One More Thing to fit in, we really can’t renege. See you Friday! 

Yes, actual news. As in wot’s wrong with Muvver.

The CT scan has shown an inflamed section of her colon. Now, beyond this, (as relayed by Mum), and the fact that I’ve noted she’s been written up for some steroid injections, I don’t yet know exactly what this means. But, they are moving her again, tomorrow with a bit of luck, to a Gastro-doo-dah-wotsit ward, and I will hopefully be able to beat some more information out of the docs there.

I do hope that wherever this new ward is (because according to the nurse, it’s in a part of the hospital which doesn’t exist right now), she has a similarly good room and view - you would not believe just how much she’s perked up in the last 48 hours, because she’s been able to see a bit of the world. Oh, and the picture of Bones of course - he now genuinely HAS been introduced to all and sundry!

In other news, work is still fun and games (we are talking BUSY!!), and Eric had an unscheduled visit to the vets this morning. He’d decided over the weekend that bowel problems were obviously the thing to have right now, and benevolently produced some blood in his poo yesterday. Emergency vets said it wasn’t an emergency (due to the fact that he was bouncing off the walls, and not exactly lethargic with it), but to take him to the regular vets today. So I did. All is well, but I have a large plastic syringe full of gunky stuff that I have to squirt down his throat 3 times a day. Suffice to say he is not keen!

My first words are those of thanks to Rob, Paul and Sarah, who, beause of their vastly superior techie know-how, were able to help me get a picture of Mum’s cat that I’d taken on my fabby new phone (which is still a complete mystery to me) off the damn phone, printed, and thence into the hospital in a nice litle frame (which I managed to buy all on my own!). Mum was chuffed to bits, and has already introduced Bones to most of the nursing staff, so, a really big heartfelt *thank you* to you guys.

The second set of words details more of a triumph of common sense over duty, following my return from the hospital late afternoon, when I uttered the phrase *sod the bloody hoovering* and crashed out on the sofa for a chill instead.

My third set of words was inspired by the sermon I missed this morning, but got the gist of from a friend : basically, the advice was that whilst it’s easy to blame God for all our woes, we should perhaps be having a go at the Devil, and telling him where he gets of. So here goes :

Dear Mr Devil

You have been a thorn in my side for many a year now, and in the last 7 weeks, your presence in my life has been a far too regular occurence. I would therefore be grateful if you would take your cloven hooves, your rather pathetic little goatee beard, your trident and your third rate pyrotechnics and FUCK RIGHT OFF.

Yours sincerely

Sybil Baggins (rubbish, but sincere Christian)

*feels much better now* 

Hurrah! Mum’s been moved onto a proper ward. She’s back up on the fourth floor, and much to her delight, she has a room with a view. OK, it’s mostly the building site that is currently Derby City Hospital  (I told her to hope for cute builders), but there’s roads, and countryside and sky beyond, and it’s perked her up quite a bit.

There’s nothing else to blog about really, I kept my word, and have done very little today, except a couple of errands this morning, and a well overdue visit to some friends who live over near the hospital to deliver their Christmas present…well, it has been a bit hectic this year!!!

Tonight we are watching Eurovision - or rather, ignoring most of the songs (Greece wasn’t bad), and looking forward to the farce that is the voting. Go for it Terry…

Well, having hit the deck sprinting on my return to work on Tuesday, I am pleased to report that having worked my ostrich off, I have got pretty much back up to date. It’s actually been quite theraputic being so busy, I’ve just got my head down and got on with it, which has taken my mind off things.

I had a good long telephone conversation with one of Mum’s doctors today - she’s had a very stressful day poor thing, 5 bad bouts plus a barium meal CT scan (have you seen how much of that stuff they expect you to drink?!), so she was a tad frazzled when I saw her this evening. They have a flexible cys-something-or-another (camera up where you really wouldn’t want one up) planned for next week sometime, plus more blood and stool tests, so hopefully something will show up, which they can then start to treat.

Her spirits are a bit up and down, quite understandably - they’ve pumped her full of fluids, so she’s more with it, but that brings a greater awareness of how long she’s been ill, and how rough and drained she feels. We have managed some good conversations over the last few days, and there’s one gem I just have to share we you. We were talking about use of the English language, swearing in particular. *Hmmm* she said *bollocks is one of your favourites isn’t it? I don’t like bollocks, but I do like balls* Sheer class. We shared a damn good laugh over that one!

As reported last night, we have water again (the bath was lovely thanks Lois!!), and as of today, the shower is also back in action. There is a dehumidifier humming away in the kitchen, a patch of wall with no paper, and matey is due back next week sometime to relieve us of part of the kitchen ceiling. Joy! Maris, I hope you don’t mind, but you’ll be staying in something of a bombsite next weekend!

So that’s about it. What a week. I plan to do the bare minimum this weekend and recharge the old batteries ahead of whatever next week holds.

*Goes off in search of baggy trousers, comfy slippers and a hot water bottle*

We have hot & cold running water again!

Woo and yay and - sod blogging, I’m off for a bath!

I have spent a small fortune parking at the hospital in the last few weeks.

They used to do a weekly concessionary rate - in fact, they still do, but only in the furthest flung carparks, and I quite honestly don’t fancy a 10 mile route march there (with supplies of clean nighties/cardigans/slippers) and back (with an equal/superior quantity of laundry), so am forced to pay £1.60 for up to an hour, or £2.30 for up to two hours.

Now, bear in mind, it’s still a good 5 minute walk (at brisk pace) to the ward. So, allowing 10 minutes to hotfoot it, that’s visiting time down to 50 minutes (I’m not being tight, but in the evenings I also have Bones to feed and fuss, and my own house to keep in order, so with visiting not starting til 6, I’m never back home before 8pm).

Also consider that they state that the first 20 minutes is free. Now, this doesn’t mean that the up to one hour charge kicks in after 20 minutes, no, no, no. So effectively, you’re paying £1.60 for 40 minutes.

AND there is no sodding leeway, which seeing as I slipped into the second hour by ONE LOUSY STINKING MINUTE  today, seriously pissed me off!!

*ahem*

…cos I’m two thirds asleep, and heading for bed.

Mum - no change, hooked up to a drip, and providing plenty of material for the samples the doctors required. In turn, I am being supplied with plenty of washing.

Return to work - incredibly busy, but good. People have been really nice and sympathetic.

Kitchen ceiling - still up there! No dramatic collapse in the night. Only 48 hours of no running water to go!

That’s about it - I’m off quick before something more blogworthy happens…

I woke up just before 8 this morning. I wondered for a while : shall I get up and have a shower now, or luxuriate under the duvet until I go and see Mum, and have a shower when I get back? I chose the latter. Big, big mistake…

Although I’d promised Mum I’d be with her by 9.30, I wasn’t totally surprised to get a (silent) call from her just after half past eight. Scrambling into clothes, I shot round there. She’d had a very bad night, and hadn’t even had the strength to get out of bed for the last two goes. Bracing myself for the clean up job ahead, I rang the on call Dr’s first, and after being referred to the phone doc, was promised a house visit within 4 hours. For the record, it was then 9 o’clock.

Four and a half hours and 2 more serious goes later, still no doc. I call again, and am told it could be up to 6 hours. I ring again at 6 hours, and am told it should be within the hour. We are now up to a total of 4 bad goes (and three nightdresses) since I arrived. 5 minutes short of 7 hours (and my ringing 999), the doc arrives. He makes a number of phone calls, and arrangements are made for her re-admission to Derby City. Bugger waiting for an ambulance this time, we take her (having taken the necessary precautions for the car seat first). On the way I realise I’ve forgotten her warfarin book. We press on. They book her in. Of course they need the book tonight, so Chris drops me back at Mum’s, I sort the cat, grab the book and hare back to the hospital, just in time to collect another load of dirty washing. I then return home with a much needed chinese for me and Chris. It’s now 8.30.

But that, dear reader, is not where today’s sorry saga ends. Oh no. Having eaten said chinese, and with it geting dark, we call our own cats in for the night. On coming back in from the garden, something catches my eye. Why is the wallpaper sagging? Why does that bit of the kitchen ceiling look damp…

In short, the 24 hour plumber has just left, and we have no water until teatime on Thursday. Crappy old lead piping and two plumbers ago have a lot to answer for.

C’mon on then, what’s next? Give us your best shot. We’re on a crisis roll here…