I like driving in my car, Its not quite a Jaguar

Thanks to Madness for providing the title and providing a flawless link to today's update, though in reality I like driving my Peugeot, and that is nothing like a Jaguar, oh those nutty boys

A Slight retrograde step backwards for the blood pressure this morning, 92/63, but after a delicious salty sausage roll for breakfast it rose to a more presentable 102/75, so I think I got away with that without an enforced stay.
I am now sufficiently well enough to start driving, and mercifully I seem to have avoided hitting anything yet, despite my supposed frailty. The first trip I made was just to venture out to get used to the car, which after 5 weeks of non use, was still in good shape. Those Frenchies know how to build voitures. No in fact the only thing amiss with the motoring was moi, still feeling a trifle sore just where the seatbelt strap wrapped around my midriff, and just a teeny bit of uncertainty.
After a small perambulation around what is commonly referred to as "the Block", and a short stop for a latte  (2 sugars please, non of your diabetic rubbish for me now...), I felt refreshed and that I had taken back part of my life, and regained a morsel of independence . I would now be able to drive myself to hosptial, and use the marvelous mobility parking permit that has been generously provided by the local physician, who quite rightly asserts that I cant walk more than 200 metres, and as such am entitled to a temporary permit. Yay! Priority parking for me for 6 months! I shall of course get even porkier as a result, but fully intend standing next to even fatter persons to make myself appear svelte and lithe.

My first trip down the motorway appeared to me to be fine, but wondered why I was at the receiving end of a host of irritated glances from both drivers and passengers. Undeterred I continued on the open road, relaxing to my Top Gear Driving Anthems Cd...
Until I noticed my speed, steady and slow, at about 65 k's an hour! No wonder the rest of the motored masses were a tad grumpy. Perhaps they pondered why a sleek black GTi with tinted windows (so very Essex!) was being driven like Miss Marple on a  mission, on her way to the grocers to buy half a pound of humbugs and some mothballs.

I felt somewhat shamed and urged myself to go faster, but as a conscious effort this fell somewhat flat, land I was reminded of the tale of the UK pensioner caught driving his mobility scooter (with GTi stripes and tinted shopping basket) discovered merrily pootling along the A27 in Sussex. Ah Sussex I hear you murmur, county of quaint villages, thatched cottage and inns, and picturesque byways to the coast.

Except the A27 is somewhat larger.......

I rest my case, and can verify that now a week later I am back to form behind the wheel and now happily tear up and down the motorway, watch out Miss Marple.

Mind the Gap!

Well I couldn't think of a link to District Nurses, so Ive made a very tenuous reference to the District Line on London's Underground...

Blood Pressure today 119/73, so all good there for a change.

Over the past 2 weeks I have been lucky enough to have several visits from a succession of local district nurses to attend to my still weeping wound. Although it is slowly starting to heal it was indeed a major incision, and consequently quite deep and violent looking. If you can imagine John Hurt in the chest scene from "Alien", with perhaps a slightly less frightful ejection, and covered with a surgical dressing then you have an idea of the extent of the current situation. The total healing time for the wound is approximately 8-12 weeks, which seems an inordinately long time, but is quite normal for an ex diabetic. And so this is why I need my dressing changed every second day, which gets done at the hospital, but now at the weekend I get visited by a nurse, whose name I couldn't tell you. This is one of those awful social conventions, when you mishear or forget the name of the person or persons just introduced to you. Normally this is fine and you can get away with it,  but I have had the same nurse now visit me 7 times, and each time she addresses me personally, obviously. She even attempts to make small talk, which must be difficult for her, as I feel sure that her previous posting was assisting Dr Mengele in Poland. Her efficiency combined with her lack of sense of humour is quite Germanic.
I shall call her Helga.

She does a rather good impression of Kate Winslet in The Reader. Today's visit was typical, she arrived punctually at 9am (Its a Sunday!!!), and straight away opened her bag of tools and dressings, and mused to herself out loud, How should she dress the wound today? I quipped  that as it was Sunday, perhaps she could try a morning suit or Sunday Best?. She then frowned in a completely "That wasnt even remotely funny" sort of way, and then proceeded to change the dressing in a most teutonic manner, until all was left perfunctorily again. She said her Auf Wiedersehens and departed.
She drove off down the drive, in her little Waitemata District Health Board eblazoned VW (of course, what else?) and I was left to ponder, was she just curt with me alone, or did she talk to all her patients with such ruthless and humourless efficiency, and more importantly, what on earth was her name????


Enough , I seem to have run out of time, and will revel in the motoring saga later this week.
Stay Tuned, That's all folks!!

I cant stand up for falling down......

Sang Elvis Costello in 1980, which leads me appropriately to the vagaries of recovery. An update is required methinks, no we are not Tudor this week, thank jollyness for that.

So this morning I bounced out of bed with all the enthusiasm and energy of Nick Clegg rushing to a photo opportunity in the riot torn suburbs of Olde Englande, had a yawn and a stretch, only to find myself exactly fourteen seconds later plummeting to the floor, as fast as Phil Goff's popularity (NZ Opposition "leader" and generally ignored by the electorate). So I am guessing that the blood pressure is still an issue at the moment?
I quietly examined my predicament, I was unhurt, and unbruised, so presumably could crawl upstairs, like a baby perhaps. Though what that would do for my dignity is anyone's guess. I surreptitiously glanced around to ensure that I had not been observed,  thus losing my immaculate image of Cool Britannia, and then safe in the knowledge that my mojo was intact,  I pondered the issue. Perhaps I could try and stand again, stagger up the stairs and make for the kettle, to rectify my apparent fluid imbalance. But what if I experienced another unpleasant collapse? Well it shouldn't be too bad, as I don't appear yet to have osteoporosis, but it is a very unpleasant feeling, rather akin to all your blood draining from your brain and rushing to the pit of your stomach, at which point, once the last drop has met up with its colleagues, it musters together and plans a vicious assault on your perpendicular stance, and then with a whoomp, down you go, like a chimney being demolished, albeit with less dust.
Perhaps I could compromise, and stand and move whilst in a bent over position? That might work, though forward vision might be a bit odd, not to mention my sense of decorum. A nanosecond of sustained thought later, I decided on the latter course. Oh well here goes, and with that I made a dash for the kitchen, up 2 flights of stairs, leaving my disorientated blood cells unable to regroup and take me down. Yay! Gold medal for England.
I reached the safety of the kettle and rested my head on the granite workbench, in an effort to confuse my errant blood pressure that all was alright. Alas I only partially succeeded for hey presto, like a much maligned and eager puppy, keen to be by my side, the wooziness and general chimney felling feeling briefly returned, though this time I managed to avoid  becoming recumbent on the kitchen floor. After a  stewards inquiry it seemed I was no longer eligible for the gold medal after all.A  few moments of self correction later, I managed to grapple my way to the supply of pills and potions that are still on top of the kitchen bench, after 5 weeks out of the hospital! I quickly polished off my morning tablets and after several libations later, felt sufficient stable to make a dash for the sofa.

There I relaxed after my mornings exertions and heaved a sigh of relief as I drew to my side all the accoutrements of recuperation, i.e. the TV remotes, my mobile, the house phone, a suitably unread magazine, and of course my Ipad. I was now established until either lunch or my noon course of pills summoned me back to the kitchen with their sirens call "Andrew, come in here, we are  are waiting for you, you will be fine, and wont fall over, we promise, come on its not far and you do so want us....."
Well this time I will be ready for them with a stiff upper lip, a sense of British decorum and a Tally Ho and a toodle pip! No bronze for this Brit!

Though I will in all likelihood probably be humiliated and end up on the floor, not unlike J-Lo or David Tua, just like the probable humiliating national defeat in both the forthcoming RWC and next year's London Olympics.

Tomorrow my attempts at driving, an update regarding the District Nurse and the problems of when your partner gets a migraine and cant look after you......

Now where did I leave my Codpiece?

Gadzooks and a hey nonny nonny my liege.....

I seem to have become a little bit Tudor England lately, not sure why but it may be the combination of the masses of new drugs, or mayhaps the donor for my organs was indeed from that period, or most likely I have become quite bored at staying in the house watching TV!!. I have been possessed  by the spirit of a yeoman or whelp from the days of Shakespeare and Marlowe.

I awoke this morningtide with a mild case of the sweating sickness which I had to overcome before making my progress to attend the leech master physik. All boded well and my humours were excellent, and instead of the usual tardyness and delay, we arrived exactly an hour later of ye clocke. Well Odds Bodkins, what a difference that did indeed make, for the slowe wayt for the physik was banished and we did see the kidney team most anon. Methinks this was amiss but did most favourably reduce the tyme from 3 houres to just 1 houre of the clock, hey nonny nonny. Rather I then made my progress to see the Apothecary, and was informed by the young serving wench to come back after the passing of one quarter of the houre. Thence did I make my way to the cart and in the company of my knave we did maketh the tryppe back to the mansion house where I did feast upon slivers of cooked meates and

caykes. After that I did nodd off and perchanced to have a snooze, until lunchtyme.

The rest of this diary will be conducted in the present day, for I have had myself purged of the Tudorness, due to complaints recieved earlier in the day. I am looking forward to a quiet weekend, with a visit from the district nurse on Saturday and Sunday to change my dressing. I have never had a district nurse before, so will be slightly intrigued to see what she looks like and what she does, (I am of course assuming it will be a "she")

To me the very idea of a district nurse sounds so archaic, almost like the Tudor fantasy I have just embarked upon. Oh well we shall see what she brings tomorrow, hopefully some dressings and a sense of humour.
Until next time dear friends Adieu Sirrahs!

Under Pressure....

Ice Ice Baby, as the great Vanilla Ice crooned in 1990, which sampled Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie, by which convoluted route brings me to today's topic....my Blood Pressure.
As part of the transplant recovery programme I have to attend a checkup at the hospital every day to have my blood checked and have a consultation with the renal team, and the nurse to have my wound dressed. This lasts every day for the first 4 weeks, and then changes to three days a week after the first month, which is where we are at the moment, which is progress. Now, as part of the daily checkup, blood pressure is taken, and we have noticed a worrying trend. Whereas before the transplant I had hypertension, and had to have medication to lower my high blood pressure, now the situation seems to have reversed itself. Whereas normal pressure is 120/75, last week I attended clinic and it was 75/45, and I was immediately admitted back into the renal ward for observations and re hydration by a saline drip! As Miranda's mother would say Such Fun! Nice to be back again.
As if that wasn't bad enough yesterday my blood pressure was again very low and I was instantaneously transported like Harry Potter and his chimney travelling chums back to Ward 71 for another saline drip. However there was no bed available in &!, so I was pushed along in a wheelchair(I was too weak and dizzy to stand and walk upright) down to the emergency department where I was checked in, and taken through to the Assessment and Planning unit. Very conscious of the time I thought the drip would start soon, especially as it takes 2-3 hours to infuse, and I didn't really watt to stay in all day, not to mention my poor lift home who was left waiting outside pour moi.But wait, there's more...
In APU I overheard them saying that they didn't have a space for me either, and I was to be taken to another ward for a drip. I was beginning to feel like a particularly unpleasant and hard to cook ingredient on Masterchef, it seemed no one wanted me....boohoo.
Finally I ended up in a different ward altogether, ward 21, where they seemed to act as an over-spill ward for A&E. Oh well at least I had got somewhere to have my drip and then I could go home. Of course this was very optimistic of me, as the attendant nurse soon appeared with a set of pyjamas and told me to get changed ready for my admission to ward 71! I was flabbergasted and not a little put out. I was only supposed to be having a saline drip for 2 hours and then was free to go, however along the long and confusing route to the current ward, the original instructions has mutated into a full hospital admission, rather like Chinese Whispers, with myself acting as the misheard whispered word.
Mean while lunch came and I had almost resigned myself to a full hospital admission, which was slightly annoying as I had a full afternoon of recuperating in front of the TV planned.
So ipad in hand and after a couple of hours websurfing, the renal doctor from Ward 71 arrived. He was surprised I was in this ward as they were expecting me for a brief saline infusion in Ward 71! He saif he would sort it all out, and lo and behold he did! I was told by the nurse on 21 that an error had been made and that after this drip had finished I could go home! Imagine my relief, I would be home for Masterchef Australia!!
And indeed I was, though I suspect as my blood pressure is still on the low side I may end up back there soon. This morning I was 90/57 which is not normal, but a bit better than 75/45!

 Oh well, I will just have to have more salt and MacDonald's.......Would I like fries with that? YES!

Not related, but this is Minke our Burmilla pretending to be adorable. Aren't cats supposed to lower stress and blood pressure? Oh well.......

Stented Love

Hello dear chums around our parochial electronic global village, time I think to update you all on recent developments. This week has seen a few firsts in this new non diabetic state of being, I have for the first time ever had a sugary pudding after dinner, bread and butter to be exact, and have chomped freely on a Cadbury's Picnic, as well as eating copious amounts of Burger Rings and Cheezels, without a care for my blood sugars! I almost drank some normal Coca Cola, but though better of it, more from a sense of moral outrage over my willingness  to buy into the corporate marketing of the evil drinks giant, than any care for my new pancreas. I am relishing daily the rather pleasant and after 3 years of little use, the wonderful forgotten sensation of having "an urge to pee", and the resultant sense of relief and disturbingly pleasant sensation that develops! That will sound very odd, I admit, but it really is a great feeling!
Am slowly feeling less pain from the operation site and my wound is beginning to heel steadily, but still looks like Jack the Ripper has had a wee go at my abdomen.

Now please allow me to explain the title of today's entry and it's relevance. During my recent operation the surgeon places a thin bypass tube within the ureter to allow the new kidney to pass urine to the bladder, without inflaming the natural passageway, to protect it from what is quite traumatic physical surgery. This is known as a stent.

This lasts for a period of 4 weeks and then it is removed, (is it really just 4 short weeks ago I was on dialysis three times a week and monitoring my sugars?)
Obviously I have been slightly perturbed by the up and coming stent removal procedure because there is only one way out of the ureter, down through the bladder and out through the end of my wee willy winkie. Ouch!! To make matters worse my adorable transplant coordinator, who is overseeing my recovery, has been plying games with my mind by telling me that the procedure, although brief in its duration, is akin to childbirth. Yikes, I thought, this sounds mighty unpleasant, and not really something I want to contemplate. To make matters worse, I decided to google "stent" and became increasingly horrified at the size of the blasted thing, about a foot long!!! And that has to exit through my tilly tackle.....Witness this actual example Xray and prepare to join me on the floor in a dead faint......

 

So all day I have been feeling anxious and not a little overwhelmed by the joys to come later at the clinic, even right up until the moment that I was greeted by the very kind nurse at the reception, and shown through to the procedure room.

I undressed and was draped in a towel, presumable not for modesty, given the intimate nature of the meeting, but to mop up any fluids exiting? The Dr then inserted a brief squeeze of local anaesthetic and then proceeded to caress my member in order to work the anaesthetic into the affected area and bladder. And then it happened, part one of the most unpleasant searing pain imaginable, internally within my very core! As the cystoscope was pushed through into my bladder, it met resistance, just like the French. However unlike Renee and his 'Allo 'Allo comrades this was no laughing matter as the pain was quite severe albeit brief and fleeting. After the initial shock and pain, I was however, fascinated by the cystocopy which was broadcast on a small TV monitor, allowing the surgeon and me to see inside my own ureter. It really did look like something from David Attenborough's oceanic explorations, with perhaps less dolphins; a magnified and swirling world of internal lining set amidst a jelly like mass of membrane, with the end of the stent lying on the sea floor like a tired sea snake. The surgeon then proceeded to grab the end of the stent and I was told to breathe in deeply and then exhale. 

Little did I realise that this was part of their great deception and that actually the first pain of the bladder entry was not the last. As I exhaled, the stent was abruptly pulled out through the bladder and the end of my penis. Ouch! It was again a brief  but searing pain, that did indeed last for about 10 seconds as it travelled through the bladder and my uereter. Did I mention the pain? I was then asked whether I wanted to keep it, which topped off the moment for me, and I was left in a fit of giggles.

I swiftly exited stage right in somewhat of a hurry to get out of there,and on reflection, although probably nothing like childbirth it is not something I would want to undergo again.  By the way did I mention the pain??

To paraphrase the lyrics of the marvellous Soft Cell from 1981...

" Sometimes I feel I've got to
  Run away I've got to
  Get away
  From the pain that you drive into the heart of me

  This internal tube you've given
  I give you all a patient could give you
  Take my tears and that's not nearly all
  Oh...Stented love
  Stented love........