Another medicinal acquisition.
Because high-dose Cytarabine causes inflammation, redness and irritation of the eyes.
This time I AM complying with the printed instructions...
... however, the clinic staff told us that it must be kept in the fridge!
Hmm...
I'm not sure how warm they think our house is, or in which climate-zone we live, but it's hardly sub-tropical near Leicester at this time of year.
Out-Patient appointments... just like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get. More to the point, I never know which of the triumvirate of Haematology Consultants I'm gonna get.
They are, of course, all equal. But one of them is so obviously more equal than the other two...
My latest acquisition.
Mine because the hospital wouldn't give me the ever-reliable Xyloproct but did give me the utterly-useless Anusol.
I'm still trying to work out how to comply with the instructions:
My nads are already dangling in the broccoli, I don't think I can back in any further.
Perhaps I'm not bending over far enough?
A different postman was trying to deposit another ream of junk mail into our hallway today. While inadvertently intentionally cutting off his access to our letterbox I chatted with him for a while. According to him, the Royal Mail or the Post Office (he wasn't sure which) gets 5 pence per item of junk mail delivered. That's not a bad crack, but the poor old postie gets none of it, he just gets a hernia and hassle from those members of the public who don't want their houses filled waist-high with unwanted tosh.
And the Sorting Office folk are now playing dirty, they are intentionally placing the bona fide mail between (and sometimes even within) items of junk mail, so that unwitting folk who just dump/bin/burn/shred (or, as we do, re-post in a variety of post-boxes) their share of junk risk losing the desirable mail for which they have waited so long.
I offered him a deal. For each item of junk mail destined for our house I would give him, not the Royal Mail or the Post Office, the going-rate of five pence to either deliver it elsewhere or otherwise dispose of it.
He says he's going to think about it.
The flip-side of the deal is that if the junk mail doesn't stop soon I will be raising Mary-Hell at the Sorting Office because we have been registered with the Door-to-Door Opt-Out Scheme and with the MPS scheme for so long that I had hair when I first registered.
The posties do know about those registrations, of course. Mainly because during the most-recent festive season our front door was decorated not with boughs of holly but with this polite reminder:
"Be careful, don't overdo it, know your limits, if you do too much then rest up and recover. Phone us if you feel ill."
That's the universal advice given when they send patients home to continue their inter-chemo recovery away from all of those ill people in hospital.
The trouble is, some of us don't feel like we're doing anything of worth unless we are pushing our limits or ourselves. How do we know when to rest up?
I went in for the out-patient appointment today. I was expecting to be sent back home for a few more days, but not for a whole week...
