My Samsung Galaxy S6 explodes!

Following the call for an explosion yesterday, my Samsung Galaxy S6 responded by exploding before I did. It was Edwin who noticed it; he wanted to check something and said, "your phone's all bent," so took it out of the case. We thought it must have been from keeping it in my pocket, but then he noticed the back had been pushed off and was badly bowed; in fact, it had been blown off its glue by the phone's innards. Closer examination showed the battery had swollen like my overfilled Cat bag, and was bulging as though about to burst. Palpation revealed a tense fluid interior that looked potentially dangerous if it had it discharged in my pants.

My Samsung Galaxy S6 blows its back off !!

By chance, Edwin had just upgraded his phone, so he passed his old Apple on to me. Now we all have Apple phones and can talk together with Apple Talk. I just have the task of learning to use the thing. I have already learnt that Apple do not play any of my recorded music! It all has to be in Apple format, or downloaded from the Apple music store. Another example of greedy profiteers putting their shareholders before us, their users.

A short while after this, I followed the Galaxy. The levels of Dulcolax and syrup of figs entering the system may have been overdone a little.

Explosives

The downstairs toilet is patterned with book covers. There I see nothing but a row of old titles etched into my brain. One is Explosives by John Reid. The blue Pelican cover contains enticing blurb about its contents. "Tales of Explosives, their Magical Creation, their Fierce Energy, their Sudden Disruption...".  For four days I sit and stare at this, wondering when some decent explosion will happen for me to wonder at. I am taking prunes, syrup of figs, and repeated doses of Dulcolax, plus numerous cups of strong coffee on Ann's advice. But all remains silent. It is uncomfortable to be so distended, with colic and mild nausea making me reluctant to eat. But we must persevere.

The Great X offers to help

Ann has allowed me to take over her special room. This is her sanctuary, into which no-one is permitted without special and rare permission. It contains her private things, with their special meaning for place, time, or person, and is the place to which she retreats to be alone, or to recover her spirituality. Now she has put me in here to nurse. All week, she has worked tirelessly to support me, physically, mentally and medically.

The Moroccan Lamp in Ann's Room

She is having to do so many extra jobs now, for while still preparing meals, getting shopping in, cleaning, and making drinks, she has the additional burdon of jobs I used to help with: sorting the rubbish, washing up and emptying the dish washer, and cleaning the house of dog hairs and the garden of their mess. All the pain and swelling on her head where she fell and hit the pavement, with her yet broken and deformed hand still prevent driving, so she has to ask MA to take her to Clare for her hair, or to sort out ordering more catheter bags from the chemist.



This afternoon, we had a card from the Great X, covered in pink blossom and well wishes, with a message that, "she was so sorry she didn't live nearer, for she would love to help."

The Great X is a nurse who worked in a hospice, and is at her best with these cases of high dependency. She is brusk and efficient, and indifferent to medical mess. Ann said, "would you like her to come down?" Edwin offered to pick her up from the station, and MA said, "you'd love her to come. She'd be really good at looking after you."

I shuddered a little, and said I agreed that she would be very good, but I thought it might not be appropriate, and I didn't really want her fiddling with me down below.

Then the doorbell rang, and our young granddaughter, who'd been silently listening, said, "That's her; the Great X has arrived!"

I am adopted by Cat

I do not know which is more likely to become infected: residual urine, or a catheter. As a man, I know I would prefer the residual, which for a few hours gave me mobility and relative comfort. As a medic, I know catheters often leak, and are always uncomfortable and get infected. However, the surgical team decided that a pool of residual is not a good idea, so I am now confined with a catheter and leg bag for a week, which is both uncomfortable and has developed a slight leak already, so I have to have pads as well.

Patients with colostomy bags are encouraged to give them names, but this contraption is unworthy of being so distinguished. So, like Holly Golightly, I call it "Cat", for it pulls and claws my leg, requires constant attention, and I had not sought it but it adopted me. Cat feeds off me, is not house trained, and requires constant cleaning out and grooming.

Bloggers are encouraged to post photos to lighten the page, but Cat is unworthy of even a derisory photo, so shall remain incognito. I have never been attracted to cats, and this is the worst of them all. My only hope is that it will be removed from my care and put down next week; but they have already hinted that if the residual does not clear, they may foist another Cat on me, with the possibility of a prostatectomy dangled threateningly before me as well.

A little light lie

On the day we are born, we are sentenced to death and fated to live our lives in a condemned cell. In youth, it is remote and unconsidered. With age, we learn for certainty that the sentence will not be remitted. The only unknown is the length of time in the cell. With age and cancer, the remaining time is shortened. Now I can only live each day as best I may, and enjoy those moments I am still free to explore a life yet to be lived, brief though it may be. For this is not a “clean” cancer, but a solid invasive tumour, requiring resection of the bladder wall, and eliminating the possibility of further treatment with purely intracystic local chemo.  This may require radio- and chemotherapy, or -potentially - cystectomy. 

The surgical, radiological and oncology teams will convene in two or three weeks to discuss future care. In the meantime, I continue with a bag and catheter, and such hope as I can muster. My fortune is to have such strong family support, though as yet I have not told them at work. I said, with some air of truth, that my wife would be in hospital this week, so I would have a few days off. I had not realised how racist is the phrase "a little white lie" until I started to write it; now it hits with great force, if one substitutes its opposite. I suppose this is not so little, though, as it is to protect me rather than the feelings of others. Perhaps that should be "a great red lie"; but the little ones, meant to protect rather than harm, could be called "little light lies". 

Going for TURBT

Tues 2/10/18

TURBT is "trans-urethral resection of bladder tumour". Edwin and Ann brought me to the ward in time for the 7am check in, Ann still being unable to drive. It was dark when we left, and Ann with her poor sight is unable to drive at night anyway. Eds dropped us at the door, and went back to see to the dogs.

So far so boring, then suddenly at 8am constant bustle and noise with the staff change over: cleaners with commercial floor polishers; trollies screaming like sirens as they carried patients out; an alarm from the adjacent bed going like a high pitched metronome beating out 2/4 time; and chattering nurses, auxiliaries, social workers, physios, students, the anaesthetic team, and occasional doctors. This is an acute surgical ward for all surgical specialities, so different surgical teams visit each patient. Mr Sangupta came to explain and sign the consent form: basically a legal agreement to let them do whatever they wish. It’s 11 weeks since the first sign of bleeding, and 4 weeks since seeing him and being placed on his urgent waiting list.

Ann helped me into the surgical stockings; they were tight and difficult for her broken hand. I said it was a pity Edwin hadn’t stayed, for his strength, but Ann said “he doesn’t do feet!” before she had to leave to wait in the restaurant. The op started at 10am, and was completed by 11am. Visiting wasn’t until 3pm, so Ann sent a text to MA asking her “to come straight to the hospital.” Unfortunately she sent it as a round robin, so up north Lucy panicked and started to make arrangements for the children to be collected from school before Ann could enlighten her before she set off. But MA and Edwin met in the lobby, and the three then spent the morning in town, lunching together.

Full House

Three sets of visitors make a Full House. Sam’s parents in the morning, then Ann’s friends from Up North in the afternoon. We had been going to take them to lunch, but they arrived too late, and we had no bread for sandwiches until MA came with a rescue loaf. Then  MA, Sam and the children came in the evening and brought a curry with them.

Lorna asked if Ann had her bus pass yet, so Ann checked on line. She isn't eligible until she's 68. Also, it’s only valid in Suffolk, and there aren’t many buses she could use. She would have to drive to somewhere like Haverhill to find a bus, and they probably go to Cambridge or Essex, so she couldn’t use them.

Edwin left early for his pilgrimage “Up North” visiting Chester and Liverpool, but via Manchester as it turned out, for several lines were closed for maintenance, and Northern Rail was on strike. He went to support a fellow PhD student who was presenting a paper to the Gaskell Society, and has been asked to present the key note address at their conference next year!