The Ayes have it......

Am I referring to the Madagascan Lemur?
Politics?

Or following a medical strand?

Briefly touching on the upcoming NZ general election, to be held in November, where a lot of pampered MP's will be rushing around licking babies and grabbing every photo opportunity possible so that we can be engaged in the time honoured political process. Mind you, they are not a very photogenic bunch, for example, just to identify a few; (and I defy you not to think of the word “slug”)

Parekura Horomia = slug

Gerry Brownlee = slug              

Don Brash = old smelly slug   

       

Annette King = Mrs slug   

But enough of politics, we have another 8 weeks of constant irritating and condescending attention yet to come....

I refer of course to the eyes, (OK spelt homophonically), and my recent trip to the optician and eye clinic. As part of the ongoing care of diabetes we are supposed to visit the optometrist at least twice a year to have our eyes checked for diabetes related damage, such as cataracts and broken blood vessels inside the eye, which bleed into the eye and are known as Floaters. 

They obscure the vision and can be seen constantly in your field of vision, which is quite off putting! This phenomenon has been a constant feature of my diabetic life, and has involved annual lasering of the eyes. Whilst it doesn't hurt, it is most uncomfortable and akin to having many puffs of air blown into both eyes simultaneously. Your natural reflex is to recoil, which doesn't help as the eye quack has to try again and again, and so this endless circle of triggering and  recoiling, which usually involves some sort of "tut" from the Dr, continues for about an hour, at the end of which you feel exhausted from all the tension and recoils.

             

“Do you expect me to talk?” 

“No Mr Bond, I expect you to have corrected eyesight"

I tootled along yesterday to visit the eye quack and was ushered in reverentially almost like a valuable antique, to have some rather painful dilating drops dribbled in both eyes. These have the marvellous effect of enlarging your eyes for the doctor to scan better, but have the downside of making everything much brighter and blurred, so not really good for driving in the sun.

After a while to allow the eyes to completely dilate, you are then taken through to the consulting room, where the eye quack checks your vision using what appears to be a jewellers magnifying eyeglass, but no doubt cost 10 times as much. He then shines a small optical probe in each eye, taking care to examine the whole retina and vitreous area. This of course rather smarts thanks to the dilation drops, and it makes you empathise with Frodo as he was sought by the Eye of Sauron, for that is all you see, an intense long searing bright light which moves from one corner of your eye to the other, searching out either hobbits or burst blood vessels.         

To date I have had no hobbits, but plenty of retinal damage.

Expecting yet more expensive laser work, I was astounded when he told me that my eyes were fine and had not deteriorated any further, and had in fact an improved look about them. This, he said, was an additional benefit brought about by the improved circulation and sugar control by the new pancreas. Whoopee! No more uncomfortable laser treatments,  time consuming appointments or making claims on my health insurance.

After I paid, my vision soon returned to normal, thus allowing me to drive home and I reflected on this additional benefit as a result of the transplant. After suffering for more than 20 years with the dreaded ethereal floaters, I felt reassured that the only floater I was likely to see in the future was the voting kind, come the election as the undecided swing their allegiance between the parties.

The Importance of being Earnest

The earnest in question is not of a Oscar Wilde nature pertaining to a name, but relates to my recent trip to the podiatrist, which was as disaster prone as a scene from the Edwardian play.

Last week, out of the blue, I was phoned by my local podiatrist to inform me that as a diabetic, I qualify for three podiatry appointments per year, and my GP had therefore referred me. Wow, I thought, how desperate must his business be that he has to ring clients to offer them sessions? Whatever next? Opticians calling round offering free laser treatment, surgeons offering up new organs, and (hopefully) plastic surgeons telephoning offering free liposuction??
I was on the cusp of accepting and making a time to visit, when a pang (a very minor one, but a pang all the same) of guilt swept over me like rush of steam in a sauna.
"But I'm not a diabetic anymore, since my operation" I blurted out in a very good impression of being a honest citizen. What if I took the appointment sand then he found out that I now had a fully functioning pancreas? Would I be forced to pay his probably ludicrously expensive fees, or perhaps admonished by the local health board and face public humiliation on Crimewatch?
Not to worry he assured me, I was classed by "the system" as a diabetic "in remission". In remission? Is it going to come back then in my new pancreas?  I found this hard to accept, surely the old pancreas was the cause of the diabetes, and now it has been replaced by a wonderful new functioning one, the incidence of disease related to the previous organ, will not strike again in the same place? To misquote Oscar Wilde, to lose one pancreas may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose both looks like carelessness.

So thought I, best check with my renal registrar, and he confirmed that I was indeed an ex- diabetic,  not in remission,  as I had undertaken a recovery from diabetes, by way of a transplant. Phew that was a relief, I don't want to be classed as in remission, as it sounds lmy miracle cure sound flawed and temporary.

At the podiatrists I was greeted by a scary and very earnest looking professional, and I found myself  disturbed by his choice of lurid pullover, and manic grin. I was expecting a white coat at the least. After an exchange of pleasantries we assumed our roles, I as the barefooted patient, and he as the mad jumper attired serial killer from Criminal Minds. Matters looked worse as he examined my feet and delved into his "bag of tools" and produced a sharp instrument, that I am sure I saw on Season 2 of Dexter. He started his exploration, which of course tickled enormously, and I started to giggle. Perhaps he was the laughing comic foot killer, who disabled his victims by convulsions and paralysis caused by cataleptic laughter spasms.
After the surprisingly gentle attention he lavished on one foot, he then got me to swap over and he again began with his instrument of hysterical torture. He did however, preface this treatment, letting me know that this might tickle a little. I am not sure which school of medicine he went to, but it must have included a module on understatement for indeed tickle it did, sending me even further to the edge of sanity and frivolous endurance.
His last tool was a circular buffer which was a smoothing tool to round off some of the hardened skin, though to me it was a small sanding disc drill which emitted great clouds of white stuff, which he informed was my dead skin. Oh nice, I thought, I can now see clouds of myself floating around the room, all I needed was some LSD to complete the picture.
Afterwards there was no charge and as I left he called "See you in four months time!". He did sound most earnest. I replied with thanks and agreed to see him soon, however, it did not sound quite as earnest.

The Chronicles of Escherichia

No not alas a phantasmagoric adventure by Terry Pratchett, or akin to Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast, but a reference to Gastroenteritis, from which I have been suffering for most of the past week. Escherichia is more commonly known as Escherichia Coli, or E-Coli, and is the main cause of food poisoning in NZ, and last week it decided to take up residence in my abdomen, of all places, without so much as a by your leave! 

The source of the infection was traced back to a sausage roll which maliciously refused to reheat itself correctly in the microwave, thus allowing the escherichia to run riot and breed like rabbits in my gut. The results of course were mightily unpleasant and involved projections from both ends.

At this point I should apologise to Countdown Supermarkets for wrongfully accusing a pasta salad purchased from their deli counter as the source. I should apologise, but I wont, as I don't like them anyway and their adverts really irritate me, especially that strangely voiced Richard Till.

 

Normally my insides would be capable of seeing off this vicious bacterial attack, however the combination of anti rejection (or immuno-suppression) drugs and my current weakened state as I recuperate, meant that my system collapsed and I was taken into the lovely hospital again.

I almost asked for my “usual room” and swiped my loyalty card as I was whisked through the A&E dept. I was poked and probed and analysed and they decided to admit me as dehydration can be really injurious to the new kidney's wellbeing. Thus safely ensconced in a small private room with ensuite (not quite as smart as the Skycity Grand Hotel, but still excellent for the North Shore Hospital), I was pumped full of medications and lavished with tender care from the staff.

After multiple infusions from a saline drip, which lasted for the next three days, my bowels became mine once more and I vanquished the sausage nurtured malevolence and turmoil within.

Following a successful peace conference held just outside Paris in a old railway carriage both parties agreed to cease hostilities and stick to an armistice. Oh no, that was WW1......but there does appear now to be peace within my gut once more, and equilibrium has returned with the cautious optimism that follows a major conflict.

I still need to rehydrate myself after so many days of dehydrating, for I have been visited by the  familiar grim herald that announces it's presence with a scythe cutting through my blood pressure, laughing sardonically as I feel wobbly and dive like a seagull towards the horizon.

 Reminiscent of the ever present spectre of Death hanging around in a Bergman film noir, the foreboding and depressing sense of being powerless and being held hostage to a malign force that lies hidden expectantly on the shore. An ever present harbinger of more medical mishaps, waiting for that moment of weakness when it will reappear and force me to engage in a symbolic game of chess, which I will lose and suffer the usual collapses once more, while Death laughs triumphantly at my predicament. 

So I need to drink plenty of fluids to combat this dark force, who seems now to be a constant companion along my road to recovery. Lots of water, coffee, milk, soup and perhaps a symbolic cup of tea and a HøbNöb. For those of a Britannic nature and upbringing you may remember those references  from French and Saunders at the Movies from 1993 which lampoons the Bergman genre to perfection, but if you have forgotten it, or are simply just too depressed to think that far back here it is again:

  Until next time...FIN

 

 

RIP Bagpuss 1993-2011

It has taken me a week to write this entry, as I was admitted into hospital with Gastroenteritis on Monday last, for four days, which was not pleasant and topped off a fairly awful week.
On Friday last week we returned from watching the Rugby World Cup Fireworks at Auckland Harbour, which I didn't enjoy as I was seasick and the gastro problems had started. We got back home at 9.30pm and as usual opened the garage to let the animals run out and greet us. I told Bluebell off as she was getting too close to the other car, but didnt see Bagpuss cross the drive. A yell alerted me that Bagpuss had been knocked down in the drive by our Ute, which was only travelling at about 3kms/hr. However Utes and thin elderly cats dont mix well and it is with intense regret and pain that I recall those final few moments. Bagpuss had been hit on his chin and was a bit bloody, but he lie prone and inert on the drive, but more telling his bowels were relaxing and urine pouring down the drive, a sign that he had passed. I feel utterly bereft and lost without his happy cat moods and demands, the way he constantly miaowed for food and yet was still happy to sleep on my lap all day. Not bad for a 19 and a half year old companion. He was getting old, and quite thin, and his hair was thinning also, but he was my trusted companion since he was a kitten in 1993. He has moved house about 10 times, and each time adapted to his new home, he moved from the UK to NZ with us in 2004, at considerable cost, but he was worth it! He will always be like a child to me, as I have looked after him when he was poorly, fed him, cleaned him, shopped for him, cooked for him (dont ask!), provided shelter, warmth and security and hopefully a nice life.

He was interred at the Albany Pets garden of remembrance, where he lies in a secluded valley filled with shrubs and flowers and hopefully will find rest there.  Baggy 01/03/1993-10/09/2011.

4.50 from Paddington (with apologies to Agatha Christie)

A steady London drizzle fell incessantly upon Miss Marple as she hurried along Praed Street towards Paddington Station. As she bustled towards the great terminus, she made certain that her return ticket was in her handbag, so it could be presented to the ticket inspector at the barrier.

After a days shopping in Oxford Street she was looking forward to her journey back home, where her maid Alice would be ready with dinner and soothing cup of tea.

Five minutes later she located an empty compartment and safely deposited her bags on the seat next to her.

She heard the conductor's whistle and with a jolt the train made its way out from underneath the great overall roof and ventured out into the rain, gaining speed as it moved through the cityscape.

In time London receded and was replaced with the verdant rolling hills of the countryside, as Miss Marple consulted her Bradshaw. The next station was Brackhampton, followed by Kings Melchett, where she would change for the local service to St Mary Mead.

On arrival at the small station she was met by an agitated Alice;

“Thank Goodness you've returned Ma'am, theres been a murder up at Melchett Manor, and His Lordship is anxious for you to hurry there and help with this mystery”

Miss Marple had known Lord Carstairs for many years through their weekly attendance at the St Mary Mead Bridge club.

“Please take these bags home Alice, I will make haste to the manor.”

After a brisk walk uphill to the manor she arrived a little after 6 o'clock, and was met at the door by Juniper, Lord Carstairs butler.

“This way Ma'am His Lordship is awaiting your arrival in the Library with Inspector Bunting from the local constabulary.”

She was shown through to a impressive wooden panelled room, replete with bookshelves filled with leather bound volumes. Huddles together by the desk stood the two men and on her entrance, hurried forth to greet her.

“Jane, thank you for coming over so late, but as you can see”, he pointed to a prone body on the floor, half obscured by the desk; “ there has been a bit of unpleasantness”

Miss Marple raised her eyebrows and stared at the body

“Well I do declare, who would want to murder poor old Robinson, the village chiropodist?”

“ We were rather hoping you would be able to help us”, said the inspector. “ He appears to have been stabbed through the heart with a nail file, and bludgeoned with a large pumice stone”

He pointed to the desk, where Miss Marple spied the body, where indeed a large piece of the light volcanic rock was lying next to the inert figure. A slim silver serrated file could be seen exiting from his chest, a trickle of blood reaching to the rug.

“Are those nail clippings scattered over poor Mr Robinson?” asked Lord Carstairs curiously.

“ I think they are pieces of rough flaky skin” purported the inspector.

Next to the body lay a smashed bottle of Listerine, the contents of which had been liberally poured over the corpse. The final piece of evidence was a leather bound tome, part of His Lordship's anthology of encyclopedias, which has been placed over the feet of the body, open at Page 89.

Miss Marple reached down and inverted the book, allowing all parties present to read what was written in it. It was an entry describing spiritualism.

“ I must confess to being somewhat perplexed” said Lord Carstairs, “Any idea Jane?”

She paused and reflected; “You know this reminds me of Mrs Arbuthnot, the doctors wife, when she went quite mad, due to her backache, and decapitated that cat”

“Please go on” said Superintendent Bunting “Who are we looking for in relation to this murder?”

“The answer gentlemen, is quite simple, given the evidence, I suggest Inspector that you start looking for your murderer as soon as possible”

“But who are we looking for?”

“Why, a super-calloused fragile mystic plagued with halitosis”

 Ok, so nothing really medical to report, hence the mad ramblings above, BP very good today 130/80, all good at the North Shore hospital, in and out withing 45 minutes, very good. Had a decent walk on the beach to aerate those legs and heart!

Circle of Life..

intoned the eminent tunessmith Sir Elton of John, highly regarded as the Queen Mother of pop, as he sang about the traumatic growing pains of a unrealistically cute bug eyed lion cub set in the perfect world of Disney Africa, where animals talk and refrain from eating each other. Most unlike any lion observed by David Attenborough, or on public display in Longleat.

A real lion

A Disney Lion

 

Meanwhile back in Auckland....When I started this blog I had the intention of documenting my life on dialysis (as per the title, now out of date). In March it was announced that patients who dialysed in Central Auckland but who lived on the North Shore would be transferring to the sparkly shining new renal centre at the North Shore Hospital. My aim was to document this move and to highlight any change to my care, and my ability to remain in full time employment, given the nature of the new times and shifts.

My date for transfer to pastures new was set as the 12th September, which is a fortnight away from where are presently, and we were all set for upheaval and a change to the established routine.

But then out of the blue the call came from Dr Collins (the kindest doctor you could ever imagine) asking whether I would like a transplant, as one was available, and I was next on the list. Strange question I thought, why would you say no? Oh, no we are off to see the new Harry Potter film, can it wait? Needless to say I drove like the furies to get to the ward in time for the prep and an early start for the operation

And the rest is history, whilst the recovery process is well documented in earlier posts. 

And what about the the circle?  Well tomorrow I start attending the new renal clinic at the North Shore Hospital, as my care has ended at Auckland Hospital and they have relinquished me back to my own district.  Thank you for the past 2 months of dedicated care and medical attention, and helping get to where I am at the moment. There is still a little way to go yet along the highway of recovery heading towards Full Recovery, but a promising start has been made. So thank you Dr Collins, and the Renal Transplant Nurses, and I am looking forward to the care provided by the North Shore Renal Team.

I still haven't seen the new Harry Potter film.