My brother Gerald and his wife Teresa arrive on Friday to visit me. I read them some extracts from my memoirs. I don’t ever remember seeing Gerald laugh so much. He has a selective memory when it comes to our childhood; he is amazed at the details I can remember. He insists I send him a copy. He doesn’t even want to wait until I get it published!
As the afternoon draws on I start to feel quite ill. I am getting pains in my stomach and don’t feel right at all. After nearly two weeks at home I can’t believe there are more problems. We are to have a meal in the restaurant across the road.
Gradually as the evening wears on I realise this is not going to settle. I accompany them to the restaurant, make a half-hearted attempt to eat, but just feel worse. I leave Gerald Teresa and Chris in the restaurant and walk home across the green. I go to bed, but the pains worsen. I lie awake most of the night, hoping the pains will abate, wanting so much to manage this myself.
By the early hours the pain is unbearable and I begin vomiting. I am desperately thirsty but can’t manage even sips of water.
We wait until it is light and then Chris calls an ambulance. I can’t walk. I have pins and needles all over me. They have to carry me. My blood pressure is very low. I am upset that this is happening again. I can’t bear the powerlessness I feel, and the lack of control over my health. I can’t imagine what has triggered this. My regime had seemed so effective.
Chris comes with me. At A&E they take blood and put me on a drip. An X -ray shows that there are still postoperative adhesions causing these problems. The doctor explains that if these episodes continue they may have to snip the adhesions away if they are accessible. I try not to think about it happening again. It is too upsetting.
After a couple of hours they take me up to Whippingham ward. The drip and nil by mouth settle things down during Saturday. By early evening they allow me to drink, and once I can keep fluids down they stop the drip.
By Sunday evening I am well enough to return home. We have to wait an hour for a taxi. By the time we get home I go straight to bed. I am terrified it will happen again. I don’t feel sick any more but I sleep with a bucket by the bed just in case.
Monday morning I am feeling better. The pain has lessened. I don’t feel sick and can manage food and drink though I am paranoid with each mouthful.
There is a letter on my desk inviting me for an appointment to see the Cancer specialist first thing on Thursday morning. I have mixed feelings. I desperately need to find out what will happen to me and when. Equally I would rather it didn’t happen. The second reaction is illogical and naïve, but I can’t help myself. The fear is overwhelming. As a child my fears seemed so very real to me. How much simpler it would be now, if I could just be frightened of spiders or feathers as I was then.
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