Who Shot JR?

"There's not I think a single episode of Dallas that I didnt see."

affirmed Abba in their most haunting chanson "The Day Before You Came".

Unlike Agnetha, there's not a single episode of Dallas that I actually did see, apart from the disappointing JR popping attempt in 1980. Maybe it was the shoulder pads, the corporate greed, or the subject matter, but I for one was not hooked on the peaks and troughs of the Ewing clan. But hark! All that iconic 80's neglect of mine can now be cured as the show is making a return to our screens. I can almost hear the clink of champagne glasses as Sue Ellen celebrates by herself.

The return of Dallas has not been matched however, by the liver affliction of the past fortnight. It has officially been proclaimed as over, a bad memory, just like Pamela Ewing's dream at the end of Series 2. Indeed at clinic yesterday all my blood tests were back to normal strength, with creatinine hovering at 100 ul's.  So fanfare instead the welcome return of consistently normal blood levels. But just like Southfork Ranch this return contains mysteries aplenty.

Why is there still a nagging chest pain in my chest?

Why have I mysteriously gained the 2 kilos that I lost in hospital, despite plenty of well intentioned dietary restriction?

And finally who really shot JR? 

(you really need to be English to get this......)

Julia and a little bit of Fanny.

Cradock. Julia Childs and Fanny Cradock.

Doyens of domestic gastronomy gracing our screens since time immemoriam. Julia's self confident enthusiastic approach to warm home cooking contrasted with the rather more severe Fanny, the stiff upper lip personified. Woe betide you if you didn't follow her instructions, nay orders, to the letter. Poor long suffering on screen husband, Johnny, or any of the myriad of fowl chosen to be demonstrably"cooked" for the viewers.

Yesterday I had an encounter that transported my feeble mind to the joys of the cooking world, I had a therapeutic massage as a celebration after the "liver incident" of last fortnight, thanks to the lovely people at Balanced Energy in Whangaparaoa.(http://www.balancedenergy.co.nz )

As the masseuse worked her magic on my body, my mind wandered as I relaxed and I was  transported to a TV studio in retroland, under the lights, waiting  to be prepared according to the recipe....

Bonjour and enchante! 

First prepare your meat by removing all coverings and let it rest on the table wrapped under a towel.

Next unwrap and apply oil to the skin, taking care to cover every corner of the fowl. 
Make sure to knead the flesh, taking care to oil the limbs and back of the bird so that everything is coated.

Once the side is basted flip over onto the back.
Repeat step 2, taking care to rest the carcass between turns.

Add more oil if necessary to ensure a golden all over baste.

Once completely oiled wrap in cloth or towel to conserve the flavour and then vigourously scrub the breast and neck with a hot towel or cotton muslin.

Leave to rest for 5 minutes before dressing the fowl.

Once finished the chicken is ready to be stuffed..

Bon Appetit!


Julia's way was certainly preferable to that demonstrated by the autocratic Mrs Cradock.

That was one Fanny to be scared of. 

Freedom.

From the ward! Thanks George Michael for putting it so succinctly...

My recent battles have not been against Sony, but against the perils of organ failure. Not this time my grafted kidney, but it's neighbour, my own original homegrown liver. No, wait , please listen without prejudice, there was never any alcohol involved in this hepatic encounter.

To paraphrase from my hospital discharge form, there was no stigmata of chronic liver disease, but I was both extremely dehydrated and jaundiced and my liver function tests were markedly deranged. 

(Here's the science bit)

Alanine transaminase levels, which are a measure of cellular reaction in serum and indicate liver function, were extremely elevated, around 9000 u/l against a normal reading of between 10-40 u/l. The liver had normal echotexture and the kidney was functioning unhindered. Gosh, thanks Professor.

After several infusions of saline, potassium and oodles of Vitamin K, like Violet Beauregarde I inflated, and with not an Oompa Loompa in sight. The general consensus of the hospital was that the liver had had a reaction to a trauma, such as the flu bug, and went off on its own little supersonic adventure, deranged. I was fortunate to overcome the infection/bug, because it could have spiralled out of control and become very serious indeed.

Three days passed, and luckily the infusions went to work to heal the pain. In fact to such an extent that my roving renal team agreed it was time to go outside and head for home.

Currently resting up, and after my clinic check up this morning, all seems calm and stable. 

The recuperation will take a few days, but luckily I have plenty of Patience.

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Isn't it Ironic?

Moaned Alanis Morrisette back in the nineties, before giving us several non ironic situations. A black fly, for example, in your chardonnay, is not ironic, just bad luck, unless of course the wine was German then "Isnt It Teutonic.", .Similarly meeting the man of your dreams, and meeting his beautiful wife, is just desperate and a tad presumptious, "Isnt it platonic?"

No my little blogspotters, irony is when you post a blog entry about the perils of the flu, and how you have avoided the ministrations of the health service, only to succomb four days later and be rushed into hospital.

After a couple of days following the mild flu attack of last week, I was settling down for the night when I was struck by an excrutiating pain in my thorax. Now at first I was surprised to find I had a thorax, not being an insect, but then Im not a biologist either. The pain spread all over my upper torso (now that I do know of) and refused to disappear. Instantly I feared that I was experiencing a stroke, which given my sedentary lifestyle would not be surprising.

However after consulting my Readers Digest Guide to Home Medicine, settled on trapped wind as the most likely cause, and drifted off painfully to the land of Nod:

Fast forward to half past two and I bore witness to the unpleasantness that was the contents of my stomach. This went on for several hours, until i exhausted myself and lapsed into sleep.

Feeling especially woozy and light headed, and dry wretching by now, I notified work of my by now obvious non attendance. Glenn made the call to the North Shore Hospital's new renal ward who made urgent arrangements for my rapid admittance to my second home.

I was rushed to the APU (Assessment and Planning Unit) for a spot of assessment and planning. This involved having an xray, an ultrasound scan of the stomach area, and several physicians popping in to have a quick poke and a prod. And then my renal team swept in majestically, like Hippocratic Stormtroopers dispatched to fix a disturbance in the MedForce.

Their view was I had a viral infection of the liver (yes, I was surprised at that one too), and at it was suffering an "insult" and had become "deranged" as a consequence.

So off I went to the Renal Ward once more, where I am currently being infused with potassium.

Now isn't that hepatic.

 

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It started with a kiss...

Well a sneeze actually.

Yes dear bloghoppers, I have been laid low with a soupcon of flu.

For the last three days I have been enjoying the symptoms of the dreaded lurgy, though clinically probably not real the Influenza. Blocked nose, sore throat, a whoppingly impressive sneeze routine, and shivering a plenty. Luckily my life is devoid of old wives and their tales, otherwise I would be drinking gallons of honey and lemon and stuffing leaves up my nostrils. 
No, this lurgyfication has been kept in check by heavy dosages of paracetemol and ibuprofen washed down with lashings of hot chocolate.

But sometimes I do follow advice, and following a swift text to my renal chappies and chappesses, I was asked to keep checking my temps.

As I didn't have any temps working with me at that time, I assumed she meant temperatures.... I never really got txt tlk. imao. :) lol

Out came the trusted digital thermometer, which gave a reassuringly normal "temp" of 36.1

And so they have remained stable, at around 36 with very little variance, which was no cause for alarm, otherwise that could indicate fever which could be the evil harbinger of infection from the nasty bug.  Fever of course usually involves the hospital at some point.

But after 3 days of paracetamol the sneezing has shrunk to a shadow of its former self......

and luckily this episode has avoided me having to see the doc.

So with just a couple of miserably uncomfortable days off work  this bout of sickness was hardly the Spanish flu.

After all the symptoms were far too mild, I dont like paella, and believe me, Ibiza first to complain if it was.

(Nice and hot, like my chocolate)

I'm a Mole and I live in a Hole?

Of course I am neither a small furry rodent of the genus Talpidae  or a secret agent, nor a unit of measurement used in chemistry or a Mexican sauce, neither a jetty or a pier interspaced by a body of water, or a river in Southwest Surrey. Neither a fictional teenage diary writer, a TV reality series, or a Ghanaian National Park……..

No I refer of course to the skin lesion, the pigmented tissue abnormality, which whilst mostly benign can be a significant harbinger of melanoma or skin cancer.

In blogs passim you may recall the majestic hat exercise, which aids protection of skin against the evils of the sun. In particular transplant recipients have a reduced immunity to skin cancer (because of the immune suppression drugs, blah blah…)

I was therefore surprised, nay amazed, that I had yet to have a skin check, a mole count to determine whether I was being ravaged and scoured by our orbital star. How remiss of me, I shall self flagellate as penance, except that might damage my skin….

So an appointment was made with the impressively titled Skin Institute. Excellent! A whole institute devoted to the epidermis, how scientifically studious and grand....

Less impressive however were the actual premises and  environs in Silverdale, an unpretty local oddity of a suburb. 
Note the reassuringly expensive neighbouring stores....

I approached the facially taut receptionist (staff freebie?)
and was soon greeted by my appointed dermatologist. After a brief introduction in which we instantly bonded due to a shared sense of dry humour, there followed some probing medicinal questions. I was then almost immediately asked to strip off in the name of science. Of course being just a tad prudish this request had me fumbling shyly with my buttons, and being British I ended up in my underwear and socks.

 All good, except the socks were also then removed.

Lying recumbent on my back I was aware of all all seing illuminated eyeglass optically wandering all over my body, prying and probing deeply. Turning over the process was repeated on my other side.

“All OK!” the rather glamorous epidermal doctor announced, after a thorough examination.

"Really, no sign of moles anywhere?"

She confirmed that I indeed had no sign of skin lesions, even though I was now in a high risk factor group with my medication.

Given the UV ferocity of the New Zealand sun I was fortunate to have been raised in the UK, where we dont have a hole in the Ozone layer.Therefore the damaging rays that Kiwi’s are exposed to during their formative childhood years, have not damaged me …..yet.

Which left me singing…..

"The sun has got his hat on, hip hip hip hooray,

I'm not as wrinkled as a kiwi, I'm from the UK"

Just dropping by.....Wheeeeeeeee!!!!

Whatever sporting  records get smashed at this years Olympic Games, arguably the most memorable event was that of Her Majesty the Queen parachuting into the stadium accompanied by a Mr James Bond. I surmise that the world was indeed impressed......

What appears to have been overlooked however, was the contribution made by the Queen's corgis during the opening ceremony. These brave and stout-hearted little Welsh canines also made the same jump. Monty, Holly and Willow underwent extensive training: practice jumps held in secret locations, enduring a strict diet, and enjoying rousing pep talks,  just like Her Majesty.

Here we see Monty being carried aboard the training plane in Spring 2012 at RAF Northolt. Observe how calmly he awaits the flight, having already had three months training with the RAF.
(Royal diaries are well prepared in advance, even for the more lupine of the reigning family)

As the Queen and Daniel Craig set off from Buckingham Palace, the Corgis set off from the nearest airstrip, London City Airport in Docklands.
As the plane flew low over Stratford the dogs jumped...

but due to a combination of slipstream and the fact that corgis are terrible navigators, they were carried off course and were last seen heading towards the Gherkin....

Elizabeth II is not the sole head of state to have dropped in to an Olympic opening ceremony. There was the hushed up incident at the 1960 Olympics where Pope John XXIII leapt from a helicopter intent on welcoming the hordes of spectators in a glittering demonstration of Vatican aeronautics. Alas he forgot Papal precedence and was last seen ascending upwards towards heaven.

And in a rare moment captured on camera the Japanese head of state, Emperor Hirohito, is seen opening the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo in a dazzling display of pomp, aerodynamics and embroidery....

What does this have to do with little old me? Apart from being one of her Britannic Majesty's loyal subjects, I too have been dropping in.... to my renal clinic, following my move to monthly checkups
No queues, no blood tests, just a quick mentoring with my consultant, at the appointed time and with blood results already online, having done them previously last week.

All is good in Andrew's World, with creatinine levels of 89 (v.v.good - in dialysis days it averaged 950 creatinine!). All other levels are excellent too and I continue to progress regally on the path of post transplant textbook normality.

Mind you, HM Lizzie and I are not the only ones dropping by this week.... Mitt Romney has joined our illustrious dropping club.