War Wounds

Today, I went back to the surgeon to get my cast taken off (then had another cast, made of fibre glass (wooo wooo) put on).  Anyway, I managed to take a snap of my war wounds inbetween casts…

It’s bigger than what I thought it would be (that’s what she said).  Say hello to my gimp wrist…

war wound #1 war wound #2

 

Oddly, I was tempted to see if I could peel the skin back and have a look around inside. *Vomits.*

Fingers are crossed that it heals, because the next option is to remove the offending bone and fuse my wrist together with sellotape and superglue. This will mean one arm will be half an inch shorter than the other!

Jeremy Beadle eat your heart out…I’m gonna need to work on the goatee.

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Recovering, slowly but surely

So nearly three weeks after the heart attack I’m recovering, slowly but surely.  I’m still a bit out of breath doing simple stuff…walking around or going up stairs is hard work if I go quicker than my heart will let me – but that’s only to be expected at the minute.  I’m off work for another 2 weeks then I’ll probably look at easing back into work (maybe part-time hours for a few weeks).

My blood test results came back and they were all clear…so there’s sod all wrong with me. I’m literally that person you read about where someone has a heart attack and no one knows why.

Just to complicate things on top of all the heart stuff – I need to go back and see the hand surgeon in a couple of weeks (I’ll probably need another operation on that bone in my wrist because it hasn’t healed)!  Work have been good with me though and my boss said they’d be ok with me working around whatever I need to do.

I start cardiac rehab tomorrow so hopefully that’ll help my recovery too.  Maybe I’ll make some new friends there…Edna and Stan will invite me to Bingo nights (or whatever old heart attack people do).

All the consultants, doctors and nurses keep telling me I’ll start feeling a bit down about the heart attack and part of the rehab is to get you to speak to someone about it all.  I can’t see myself feeling down about it…I haven’t been thinking about it in a depressing ‘why me’ way at all.  I’ve been very blasé about it (apparently it’s common for people of similar age to be blasé).  But I’ll just go with it and take what they offer…every little helps I suppose and it’s there for a reason.

The way I look at it is that I’ve fell off my bike.  I just need to get up, brush myself off and, with the stabilisers attached for a while, carry on.

That wasn’t part of the plan

I didn’t make it to Brisbane, Fraser Island or Whitsundays.  Our planned road trip didn’t happen.  I didn’t even make it out of Sydney airport.  Instead, I spent four days in hospital.

When we got to the airport I started to feel nauseous and because I’d drank quite a bit over new year I put it down to a hangover.  I couldn’t remember the last time I was sick from a hangover but these things happen, so I didn’t think much of it.

After checking in, I vomited again and thinking that was the last of it we went to our departure gate…to find out our plane had been delayed by 2 hours.   Then I had to vomit again and it all started.

I had sweat pouring off me and I was dizzy, nauseous and had some pains in my chest and after being in the toilet for about 20 minutes eventually made myself get up, find my friend and find some first aid as I knew something was up.  

My friend thought I was having a panic attack due to the plane being delayed and we’d been rushing about earlier to get to the airport.  I wasn’t convinced, but whilst I was sat with the first aid person I was getting worse, I was short of breath, the pains weren’t going away, I was still nauseous and even with an oxygen mask on I was struggling to breathe – so they called an ambulance. 

The ambulance came and they hooked me up to an ECG and took me to hospital.  Once I got there, the first couple of doctors said to me that I was showing signs of a heart attack, but “it can’t be a heart attack, you’re too young, fit, healthy etc”. They thought it was an inflammation/virus of the sack around the heart – like a flu virus – so they done more tests; ECGs, echos, ultrasounds, ultrascans…everything. 

Eventually another cardiologist came in and stood there with about 8 people around him waiting to whisk me away.  They were going to do a angioplasty procedure to rule out a heart attack.  They took me upstairs to the cardiologist unit and slapped some resuscitation pads on me “in case you do anything silly during the procedure”. 

They gave me a local anaesthetic and they cut into my groin and sent a tube up to have a look at the arteries.  Whilst they were doing that they found I had a blood clot in one of the main arteries of my heart – which they cleared and put a stent in the artery to keep it open.  I was awake whilst they were doing this and felt them doing it inside of me – even heard my heart monitor stop for a second too.

The blood clot had caused me to have a heart attack.  

The doctors still don’t know why it happened.  They’re still waiting on results of blood tests to see if I’m prone to blood clots.  My blood pressure and cholesterol levels were a bit higher than normal but not remarkable so.  The doctor said that nothing I’ve done in the past or have done caused this to happen.  It was all in my genes and it was like this from when I was born, it’s just been waiting to happen and I was lucky it happened when it did (with people around/close to hospital etc).  If that plane hadn’t have been delayed and I’d been on the plane, he said I wouldn’t have made it to Brisbane.  

I’m back home now and I will make a full recovery.  I’ve already been out and about for a few (very) slow walks.  I’m like a pensioner at the minute and I’m wondering if I can nab one of them mobility scooters from somewhere (I’d love a go on one of them).  But aside from all the tablets I need to take I’ve got to go and see a cardiologist in a month and to attend a cardiac rehabilitation program for 6 weeks (starting next week).  Have just been told to take it easy for the next 4-6 weeks – and as long as I don’t exert myself I’ll be fine.   I’ve got to reduce the risk of it happening again, so I’m off the booze for the foreseeable future (if not indefinitely).  The doctor said I couldn’t have sex for two weeks, to which I replied “that’s ok, 2 weeks, 2 months, 2 years, it’s all the same”.  He didn’t find it as funny as me.

I’m just relieved it happened when my friend was here, she’s been amazing and I don’t know what I would’ve done if she hadn’t have been around.  We’ve got the same sense of humour, so we’ve found the humour in everything – from me off my face on morphine in the ER, to walking around like a pensioner.  When something like this happens it makes you realise how far away from family and friends you are.

Because it’s so rare for this to happen to someone of my age, the doctors have took my charts to use to teach other doctors and they’ve also put me on a research program as well.

I still haven’t got my head around it yet, but it’s all been very surreal week.  I’m 33 years old, no history of health/heart problems, relatively fit and healthy and I’ve had a heart attack.  It just goes to show, it could happen to anyone, at any time.

It’s time to put my feet up and get through a shitload of movies and TV.  What a start to 2013. 

Falling over is expensive

Looks like falling over the couch is going to cost me about $2000.  Hopefully it won’t be any more than that – as long as my GP and surgeon tell my insurance people it’s not a pre-existing condition I should be ok – otherwise it’ll also cost me for the 2 nights I need to stay in hospital (I’m not sure what this cost is, but I’ve been told it’s expensive).  What an absolute ball hand-ache.

I’ve got another visit to the hand surgeon tomorrow so I might get to see an exciting boney picture of my hand.  Hopefully I’ll find out when I’m going to have bits of my hip chiseled off too.

In other news, my two housemates have decided they’re moving out – which is another pain as I feel settled with them.  Thankfully it’s not because I’m a shit housemate, they’re moving out for work reasons, one has got a job in another country and another is moving to Melbourne.  Maybe I’m that bad a housemate they feel they need to move that far away…!

Thankfully I’m paying rent only for the room (rather than the cost of the whole apartment being split between 3 of us), so it doesn’t add to my costs and I don’t need to panic to find new housemates.  The landlord (who doesn’t live here) is advertising for new tenants and I will, at least, have the final say on who moves in.  Anyone want to live with me?

Although it’s a bit annoying they’re moving out – I feel like I’m starting all over again to some extent – but you never know, it might work out for the better.

Going to the gym

My day job comprises of sitting behind a desk all day (looking busy) and the most strenuous bit of activity I get to do is when I lift a pen up to write something.  So I decided it was time I got my arse to the gym to do something.  If I happened to lose a bit of weight/tone up (how gay does that sound) or end up with muscles like Popeye then all will be good (although my right bicep doesn’t need feeding much more spinach at the moment).

I’ve been going the gym (intermittently) for about a month now, but to be honest I haven’t really known what I’m doing.  I’ve been going there just to do something rather than sit at home watching The One Show wondering when Chiles will shave his trampy beard.

That was until I bumped into a friend at the gym, who is a personal trainer, and I took him up on his offer to ‘put you through your paces’. 

The first session last week didn’t last long (or should I say: I didn’t last long!), but it was more productive than what I’d been doing previously.  I’d basically been having a nice little bike ride whilst staring at the lovely ladies on the treadmill in front.

Muscles I forgot I had have been rudely awakened.  After the first bout of torture I would’ve been more stable after a Saturday night out; I ended up walking out of the gym like a new born calf. 

The one including a girl and vomiting

When I go out I never actively go out to try and chat up females.  Ever.  I also know this is the main reason for my longstanding singledom status, but for one reason or another I can just never be arsed. 

Rewind to a few nights ago and I didn’t change my tact much either, but somehow I pulled.  Finally, years of perfecting my ‘I can’t be arsed’ look worked.  Even my bad ‘uncle knobhead, with the movement equivalent of a tree’ dancing in the early hours didn’t put her off.  I was, however, initially more concerned with the whereabouts of the free Sambuca which was being given out by the bar staff (my priorities were in still in working order)!

Long story short however, given it had been “a while”, it wasn’t my greatest moment between the sheets.  I therefore have no shame in announcing to the internets, that I was initially more efficient than a P&Q roll-on/roll-off ferry.  Although I did make amends in due course.   I did!

In hindsight though, given she had come back to mine, my morning after etiquette wasn’t up to scratch.  After a couple of refused requests for tea and toast (tea and toast? Is that the norm nowadays?  In the past I’ve tried to make a break for it as quick as possible – apart from that time someone actually went out to the shop to go and buy bacon so she could make me breakfast *aaahh those were the days, they don’t make ‘em like they used to*) I just always want to avoid the awkward morning thing.  It also seemed she wasn’t in any particular rush to move and was digging in for the day, so I finally manned-up with the classic: “I’m not being rude but I need to go out in about an hour” (I did actually need to go out…just not for another 3 hours).  Who said chivalry was dead eh?  I’m an ol’ romantic at heart!

Neither did we swap numbers with each other.  Would she have given me her number?  Was she waiting for me to ask? Again, in hindsight I probably should’ve asked, as she was actually good looking and my type of girl, but something in the back of my head told me not to ask for her number for some reason.

 

Anyway, fast forward 12 hours later and I’m doing the greatest impression ever seen of that girl from The Exorcist, and I’m projectile vomiting all over my bedroom floor. 

I woke up about 2am and the only thing I literally had time to do, was swing my head off the pillow to ensure I didn’t vomit all over my bed.  I couldn’t even lift myself off my bed, nevermind make it to the toilet.  I’ve since spent two days in bed, slept the most I’ve slept in about 6 months, and still feel like shite.

Possible Theories to the sickness:

  • Food Poisoning
  • Stomach Bug
  • Severe (delayed) allergic to reaction to being in close proximity with a living female

Taking into consideration that I hadn’t vomited for years and that it’d been “a while” since I last pulled.  My many years of medical training can only drive me to one conclusion: that the two events are somehow inexplicably related (maybe some kind of post traumatic stress). 

I’m therefore estimating next intimate relations with a female to be in the year 2015.  This way I won’t be disappointed and hopefully the current distinct whiff of vomit will have left my room by then.

 

PS: Happy New Year and all that malarkey *shakes everyone’s hand*

Going radio rental

I haven’t been too sure if I wanted to write about this or not, I nearly wrote it last week but decided against it. But now I might as well do one of them ‘fuck it, just type’ posts.

For the past few weeks, maybe a bit longer (probably since I returned from Spain), I’ve not been feeling right in myself.  But over the past 2 weeks this has just been ramped up 10 fold and I’m now feeling as weird and as fed up as I’ve felt in a while.

There’s no real trigger that has set me off. It’s a mixture of things (normal run of the mill things). I’m fed up with my home/social life: Even though lately I seem to be getting out on a weekend, Monday to Thursday the only people I speak to are colleagues in work. Once I get home there’s no one to speak to, that’s it in the main. Unless I make the effort to go see a mate or family (and with it always being me making that effort, it gets tiresome).

Which then leads onto singledom.  Although I’m quite happy being single, I’m just bored of the monotony of it all. I’m not an attention seeker or anything, but I get no attention from anyone (there’s a contradiction for you).  No one seeing how I am or, seemingly caring.   It’s just hard at the minute muddling on.  Having too much thinking time isn’t helping and having no distraction there.

Money is a problem but not a real worry.  I have some spare cash (not enough, but who ever has enough?) to do things so I’m not housebound.  I’ve just got no real distractions other than work which is just boring as fuck lately.

My sleeping levels have dropped off to next to none.   If I’m sleeping at all I’m getting 2/3 hours of disturbed sleep as a maximum (I got no sleep whatsoever on Wednesday night).  Unless I go and get drunk, when I slept like a baby last weekend.

I’m also not eating properly – not helped by the fact we’ve put no gas money on the meter (since we didn’t pay the gas bill) so the oven is out of use.  I’ve since been eating mainly salads, but just not enough.  I know I’m not eating properly, I’ve got a constant ‘knot’ in my stomach.  A  few people in work have remarked that I’m noticeable losing weight over the past 2/3 weeks.

Which brings me back to work, the only people who see me regular are my work colleagues. To put it slightly my boss is worried as fuck about me.  He’s called me into his office a few times the past few weeks to see what’s wrong (he’s never ever done that before in 10 years so I must look like shit).   When I try and tell him ‘nothing’ I feel myself getting upset and struggle to get my words out ‘just fed up in general’ and then try and make a joke out of it.  Then I start feeling tears trying to come out and struggle speaking without making a show of myself.   I’d love to just blabber, but I can’t, not to my boss!

I know its anxiety (I think), but it’s over nothing.  I don’t feel like there is anything wrong.  Nobody has upset me; I’m not particularly worried about anything.  I’m just fed up and bored of ‘this’.  I start thinking about going to Australia and then even that just sets me off again with the ‘is this it?’ type thoughts.

I’ve tried talking to some family and a mate but they shrug it off a bit: “go the quacks”, “you’ll be alright, come and have a pint”.

But I’m not alright, I know I’m not me, even now the lump in the throat is there, the knot in the stomach and I can feel the water behind the eyes…

…I don’t know how to fix it.