They Play With The Box More Than The Present Anyway

I spent Harry’s allocated Christmas present budget on myself today.

*ducks*

*carefully pokes head back above the parapet to face righteous ire of internet*

In my defence, I’ve spent it booking a private ultrasound scan. My GP informed me chirpily earlier on today that the waiting list really wasn’t too bad for ultrasound presently – at which news, I exhaled gently in relief. Then he added that they would almost certainly see me before the new year. At which, I inhaled again rapidly and reached for the cheque book.

I’ve spent 3 out of the last 5 dawns either huddled groaning on the floor, or stood rocking back and forth, with acute epigastric pain. I have an hour or so of rising niggle just under my breastbone, followed by another hour of quite grown-up ouchy and nausea. It peaks, and then fades away over quarter of an hour or so, leaving me absolutely wiped out and fit for nothing except a rather lumpy and oversized draught excluder. The fact that it always starts in the late small hours is unhelpful when your toddler is currently suffering  from what appears to be particularly advanced tuberculosis, and isn’t settling into a doze until… ooo, about the late small hours, really.

This upsurge in frequency and severity has been highly inconvenient, although John is now sufficiently alive to the fact of my pain to not audibly mutter under his breath about having to take a bouncy, magnetised-to-puddles, tractor-adoring, pedal-stamping, lever-pulling, wheel-grabbing, button-pressing, troublesome toddler farming first thing in the mornings, because his mother is huddled in a heap and groaning variations on a theme of FUCKOFFDON’TTOUCHMELEAVEMEALONE ITBLOODYHURTSBUGGEROFF. Harry hinders safe agricultural working practice considerably, but oh my, has such a fabulously good time on the yard. His shrieks of desperate, flailing protest at having to return home for entirely optional things like, you know, breakfast, are armour-piercing quality.  

By the end of breakfast, for which meal Harry is generally sedated with an offering of The Discerning Toddler’s Choice: The Farmer’s Weekly, I am usually emerging from the pain cloud. By mid-morning I’m pain-free and keen to eat something. Rennies have done nothing for me, so it’s unlikely to be an ulcer, and I am really, really hoping like absolute bloody hell that it’s a galloping great case of gallstones. I view all of the other diagnoses with deep dislike and I cordially reserve the right to not have any of those, thanks. If the scan shows nothing – then I’m officially pissed; it’s consultant referral, camera-down-the-throat, barium follow-through (yummy) and CT scans. Awesome. Not that a gall bladderectomy was what I wanted for Christmas, you understand, but I’ll take that in preference to anything else.  

Incidentally, Harry’ll probably still get his climbing frame. No need to start re-directing your shoeboxes

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7 Responses

  1. Here’s hoping you get relief for Christmas!

    I’m sure Harry will concur that the money was well spent (ha).

  2. Based on your symptoms, I’m guessing you need to leave your gallbladder in London, somewhere. If you can get it done through the scope, (you’ve not had a lot of abdominal surgery, so it shouldn’t be a problem) you should be up and around in a few days, just watch out for shoulder pain. They use CO2 to inflate your abdomen and it causes referred pain to your shoulder blade area. Hope you feel better soon!

  3. I’ve had gallstones and they are EXCRUCIATING. The ER doc was all “well we could TRY to wait it out and give you antibiotics so you could keep your gallbladder…” and I was all “WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK FOR CUT ME OPEN WHERE DO I SIGN???”

    Best. Surgery. Ever.

  4. Oh Jesus, that sounds miserable. Every night? Jesus Jesus Jesus. You poor woman. *shudders of sympathy*. Too bloody right that John takes Harry away to play on the tractors. No one who has to lie on the floor because they hurt so much should be made to look after anything more complicated and demanding than a small smooth cool brick (for resting one’s flushed cheek on).

    Bastard NHS. Their attitude to pain is absolutely infuriating. They only seem to get it together and get a person examined pronto if she threatens to cost their A&E a lot of money, regardless of how horrible the symptoms are at home. I’m sure there’s a moral imperative somewhere that they are breaking on a regular basis.

    Best wishes for Harry’s latest snot extravaganza, poor mite.

    And best best wishes for something easily findable and quickly fixable to sort out the Abdominal Alarm-Clock From Hell.

  5. Do the NHS think that once you’ve developed gallstones/cholecystitis that you can keep your gallbladder? Seriously? You might buy yourself a little bit of time, but you’re just putting off the inevitable. If your common bile duct is blocked, your gallbladder can rupture, causing peritonitis and a really long hospital stay involving antibiotics and surgery anyway. Seriously? Are they hoping you’ll die before they have to do anything? Y’all tell stories about the healthcare system there, and it just gives me the willies. I hope the doctor you are required to see has some sense and gets you in quickly.

  6. Oh, our HFF Wifey was not meant to be a draught-excluder! She is designed for Great Things!

    Really sorry. That sounds absolutely awful. Huge sympathy for you. Urgggg! Hoping for best possible outcome from scan – whatever that may turn out to be.

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