Tag Archives: cancer centre

Ambulatory Care

Howdy Partners. Today is officially known as Day 3, for I had my transplant three days ago. Lest we forget. That equates to five days in Ambi Care. Welcome.

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Today, I feel worse than I did yesterday and yesterday, I did not feel particularly sprightly. Sure, I have made myself go to the Clinic and sure, I got in a taxi and attempted lunch out, and sure, I finally did a number 2, but, with all that said and done, I know I am on a one-way ticket to the hospital. I have been in bed, staring into ITV for the last three and a half hours. It may be tomorrow, it may be Monday, but I can sense my days in Ambulatory Care are numbered. Things that did not hurt yesterday, are hurting. Here’s a tip, if, for some ever reason you find yourself in a similar position to me in your future, do not wear control knickers. You do not need anything drawing further attention to your stomach.

Soon, I will not be sitting with up to five other people with PICC lines in their arms. Soon, my observations with not been done daily, but every four hours. Soon, I will not have to look out for the side effects, because I will be in them. Soon, I will struggle to drink. Soon, I will look like this all the time and not for a majority of the time.

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‘Incredibly well’ my arse.

I wish I could make all of this smell of roses.

EJB x

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Horn

At this current moment in time, I am sitting in the Supportive Care Unit (I might not actually be called a ‘Unit’, but it sounds more official) on the Haematology floor of the Macmillan Cancer Centre. This is the second time I have been treated up here, and I mean no disrespect to the people I saw for 25 weeks on the second floor, but the patients up here are far more attractive than the patients on the second floor. It’s a true story. I belong here.

I am not talking about about Hollywood looks, this is the real world where 28 year olds get cancer and you cannot fast forward to the happy ending, but there are one or two people who can be classed as being pleasant on the eye. Obviously, there is an old lady to my right, who I am sure in her youth, was a looker. There are two young men in my bay. When I say young, what I mean is under 50. One, apart from the fact he is wearing a distressed laced boot beneath his fitted jeans is very attractive. I strongly approve of the rest of his outfit. His Irish accent probably helps this and the fact he is reading a book. It’s always nice to know that a man can read. He has not noticed my presence, despite my attempts at drawing attention to myself by declaring that “I am a lady” to my nurse. There was a context to this, but it probably was not necessary and was for his benefit. He’d love me if he really knew me.

The other young male is sitting opposite. On second glance, beauty is not in the eye of the beholder in this instance, despite the fact he is in my age bracket. I am not turned off by the bag of blood attached to his semi permanent line. I am open to anything, but I am not really a fan off the fact he does not seem to be able to breathe with his mouth closed. He also keeps staring at my boobies and I do not think that is appropriate. I have a cannula sticking out my vein and I may or may not keep sucking my thumb forgetting that I am in public. Oh, I just heard his voice. Definitely, No.

If you are wondering why I am rating people by their attractiveness, it is because I am empty, vain and, erm, ripe. I continue to be ripe. I could sit here and tell you about how much I enjoyed having my echocardiogram on Monday, but that is not for now. Nobody needs to be privy to the crudeness that can exist inside my mind during this period of limbo. Nobody.

I am not yet a deviant. Phew. The handsome Irish man has now been replaced by an elderly gentleman wearing a sky blue jumper, black cords with a thread veined face and grey hair sweeping cross his naked crown. I can confirm that I do not fancy him.

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