Preamble to the Ramble.....
It's been a while since my last post, I missed out all of 2016, and quite a lot has happened, both in the wide world, and personally, in the intervening while, so I thought it about time to put virtual pen to virtual paper and fill in some gaps, if anyone's interested......
My Health Issue......
I'd thought about writing this for ages,but then thought “who cares? Who would
want to read my story?” I am just a nobody, an ex-pat living in Limassol, with a small
circle of friends, who just happens to have got sick in later life, afflicted with a disease
that is, as I recently found out, hereditary, so could not have been prevented, even if I had known about it.
It has been just about a year since I first learnt the gravity of the situation, a need to upgrade my blood pressure tablets sent me to a local doctor, who correctly ordered blood tests to check me out.
She found some anomaly with my blood and phoned me the same day to advise a trip to the emergency room of the hospital.
Well, I can say I crapped it, it took me a couple of days to get up the courage to go, no-one needs bad news, but on the Saturday, I got my mate to take me. This was around April 2016. I waited patiently (no pun) and was called in. When the ER doc checked my BP he looked at me sort of sideways, and ushered me into a cubicle whereupon, after a short wait, a nurse appeared and took a blood sample or two.
Some time later, probably a couple of hours, a doctor came and showed me into a small side room and proceeded to fire up some equipment, an ultrasound scanner, and bade me lie on a bed so she could take a look at my errant offal. I don't know if you have ever seen an ultrasound, like pregnant ladies have, for instance, but I for one am unable to ever make head nor tail of them, so I don't bother to look, and I knew what she was going to tell me anyhow, from my diagnosis of 35-odd years ago, I have Polycystic kidneys.
What I didn't know, however, was that it is a degenerative disease, exacerbated by high blood pressure, which I have also suffered for many years. The GP that originally diagnosed me omitted to mention that at the time, when I could have taken better care of the old BP. He also neglected to tell me it was hereditary so any of my future offspring needed checking out.
Anyway, this Doc duly told me, and then hit me with the facts. My kidneys were only working at 30% and BP was an issue that needed addressing, so that was that, after a short wait, I was admitted, and ferried up to the ward in a chair by a nice orderly, who despite my protestations that I could walk, insisted I must ride, Hospital policy, apparently.
I have to say, and I know this is not the general view, that that week was amongst the most boring of my life, not helped by being in another country, and me being the foreigner in a ward of four, unable to communicate much, with my little knowledge of Greek. Thankfully the nurses and doctors have some English, more than my Greek anyway.
The days went thus, wake around 6, toddle off to the loo to pee in a jug( all fluids in and out have to be measured and accounted for) check the obligatory drip which had been inserted in ER, and sit on the bed waiting for meds. BP check, breakfast (bread, cheese triangle and jam, tea or milk, strange I know.) Meds, Doctors rounds, sit dozing waiting for BP check, Lunch, more meds, a couple more hours of nothing or dozing, BP, Dinner and more meds, and some time later BP and then sleep, again. The highlight, if it can be called that, of the week was a little irish fella that was in the bed opposite me. To say he was hard work is an understatement. The nurses, bless them, had to ask, each time they took and recorded BP, how much fluid you had had, now to me this is no biggie, the tea mug I had was aproximately 300ml, so a quick mental sum was all that was required. My erstwhile neighbour had a similar dinking vessel, but seemed unable to co-operate for some reason, and his answer was usually "how do I know?" It gave me something to do to count his drinks, without him realising, and to tell the nurses. They gave up asking him after two days and asked me. He could never understand why his BP was different each time, when at home it was always the same, methinks he perhaps owned a faulty machine?
One of the days was quite exciting, I had to have tests! Whoopee, a ride in a wheelchair for an ECG, another ride to the Ophthalmologist, and yet another to the Cardiologist, and a couple of X-rays.
All proved OK, so at least I know which bits are working correctly! Anyway, after a week of that and several changes of meds I was paroled, with instructions to take BP readings twice a day, and report to the clinic at the hospital two monthly.
All went well after that for a while until I noticed blood in my wee about the middle of July, and once again zoomed off to the ER, after some worrying hours. I was seen quite quickly by one of the docs from the ward, who was quite blase about the bleeding, but was more concerned about the blood test, which showed a desperate lack of sodium, and needed to be addressed asap.
The bleed turned out to be just a reaction to aspirin that I had been given previously, but the sodium issue meant another week in hospital with a drip as a constant companion, and more changes of meds.Yet another boring week, same routine, same everything.
From my discharge then until around the end of January 2017 all was well, BP under control, and blood tests stable. But then the creatinine levels in my blood started to gradually increase, and I was on monthly clinic visits. Not good. On one visit my doctor suggested I go to Nicosia Hospital, for a test by the vascular surgeon, to determine the place for a fistula, the detail of which I won't go into, for the squeamish.
Now, that first visit was a little stressed and strange, an hour on a bus to a city I'd not been before, to a hospital I'd not been before, to have some test that I knew nothing about, a worry to say the least. After finding out where to go in the sprawling Nicosia general, I duly signed in and paid my 6 Euro and was directed to wait. My wife was with me thankfully, so at least I wasn't alone. After an hour and a half, with no information, and no sign of being called, I decided I'd had enough, and said we were leaving, a wasted journey.
It was at another clinic visit that I was asked about that test, after explaining what happened, the doc suggested I go back for another go, as it was now a bit more important to be prepared to go on dialysis sooner, rather than later. Okay, back I go, same sign in, but this time I'm directed to go along the corridor to the vascular laboratory. I didn't like the sound of that, but away I went. After a short wait, I was shown into a cubicle and given an ultrasound on both forearms. This it to determine the best place for the fistula. The right was decided on as the blood vessels were larger. An appointment made for two weeks time for day surgery.
Well, now I'm really bricking it, it's that word, surgery, some people can take that in their stride, not me, I hate the thought even of volunteering to be opened up by someone, however minor it's considered. The fatefull day came and I made the journey. To cut a long story short, it wasn't that bad, three things only. The wait beforehand, that dread, pit of the stomach feeling.
Laying on a table in one position for an hour and a half, a thoroughly uncomfortable experience. And the two hour wait after to be checked out afterward, when I felt fine and all I wanted was a ciggie and a cup of tea. The actual operation was no biggie.
Only thing was, at my clinic visit two days later, doc tells me the bugger's not working, and I had to go back to get it checked out!
So off I go on the Friday, back to Nicosia general, and register and wait patiently to be assessed. After a lengthy examination the tech tells me I have a clot in the fistula, and gives me a prescription for anticoagulant which I have to inject twice daily for a fortnight, then return to hopefully find all is good.
Unfortunately all was not good, and on 12 April, I had to go and have it done again, other arm this time.
Thankfully this one is fine and although they normally like to leave two months or more for the fistula to mature, poor blood results hurried that along, so just one month later, here I am on regular dialysis, twice weekly just now. Worst thing is, it's boring, just sitting next to a machine for 4 hours, a little discomfort, but not painful.
One of the hardest parts of this situation is the realization that you are no longer able to perform the tasks and jobs you previously could do only a matter of months before, and also that although you look okay, and normal, you are in fact quite sick. It's hard to try to convey to others, even those closest to you, how you feel unable to do things that you previously took in your stride. How a simple ten minute walk to work or to the shops is now quite an undertaking.
It's frustrating for me, and I expect difficult for my boss of more than ten years to accept, that I am no longer able to work in the same way, I have to have frequent ten minute rests, I cannot lift heavy items any more, even a box of wine or crate of beer is taxing nowadays, and frequent days off must be annoying. I have two years before I can get my UK pension, hopefully I can keep at it till then, even if it means cutting my hours back a bit.
It's financially taxing too, because if I don't work, I don't get paid, so days at the hospital are a drain. The hospital costs are met through ni , a small charge is paid for drugs and consultations, but it's a trouble. They do acknowledge that you can work, so my dialysis sessions start at 4:30, I get a full day in before I have to go there.
