Michael is now classed as "complex medical". This irks him beyond belief. It seems only yesterday that he was happily (or not) working physically from dawn to dusk, drinking and smoking too much and doing completely inappropriate manoeuvres in cars and on motorbikes.
Yesterday, we visited the GP, again, about his festering foot, again. The painful blisters on the ball of his right foot are not subsiding. So, we waited for the results of the last pathology with bated breath. Insect bite be damned. The latest findings suggest a fungal invasion!
New cream, new antibiotics. Plus enough other prescriptions to have felled an entire forest. The printed results of the current status of his foot. A referral to a skin specialist (if needed), hopefully before this part of his anatomy disengages from his body. And to top it all off, his winter flu vaccination.
Then it was my turn. I was simple, if somewhat cowardly. After my flu injection and the burning off of yet another spot, I told our GP he was a nasty man. After an initial stunned expression, he roared with laughter. I don't think he has many other middle-aged female patients telling him that he is not nice.
The day before had been a dreaded trip to the Big Smoke. As we are officially lunatics, we are both under the care of a psychiatrist. She is a gorgeous skinny doctor of Asian descent, with a fondness for wine, a direct manner with plenty of wit and compassion thrown in for good measure. My session went well and I thanked her for assisting me in the retrieval of my sense of humour. We talked a bit about meds and then arranged for our next appointment.
What she is not is a mind reader. As she later told me, she can't alter or increase Michael's drugs unless he gives her a clinical reason to do so. So when he doesn't reveal the extent of his anxiety, the worsening of his reflux and the continual pain his foot is causing, she can do nothing. He is under orders to tell the Truth next time we see her. Sigh....
The final indignity was getting an X-ray on my stupid right forearm. It is currently being held together with seven screws and a plate, having been shortened last June. This had all stemmed from a work injury back in November 2013...
The films were not promising. Blind Freddy could tell that the bone isn't healing, after nearly twelve months. Is this another curse of middle age, that I don't knit well? Bummer. We see the orthopaedic surgeon next week. His parting words to us four months ago was that a bone graft may be in the offing. Oh goody!
And so I wait with breathless anticipation for the next exciting installment in the medical soap opera that is our lives. Will Michael's foot remain attached to his leg? Will my forearm start behaving itself? Will Michael tell our shrink the truth? And will medical appointments become an entrenched part of our routine?
I fear so. Thus, we need to rebel in all ways possible. We are already hatching the tentative plans for another escape to the Goldfields in Spring. Which, naturally, will include every drug known to man. but if our trips can keep us away from the dreaded quacks, even temporarily, then that will become our preferred course of action.
Adventure before dementia!
We can't wait to get on the road again...
so we can ignore this....
catch up with old friends....
climb to the top of ridiculously steep hills....
be greeted on the way down...
discover new landmarks to explore.....
make new friends in unexpected places....
and avoid this fate for as long as possible!
No comments:
Post a Comment