A diary in the time of plague

I'm certain that almost nobody following me wants to read 'a diary in the time of plague on the Wiltshire/Gloucestershire border'.

In which case, I'm sorry but that's where I'm at. Please avail yourself of the handy unfollow button or just skip my entries.

Right then -- I shall proceed on the assumption that you've consented to listen to my medical and other witterings. I promise mostly I won't witter about medical matters except where the NHS is not covering itself in glory. (And at the moment glory is cascading down on NHS staff -- I just wish that glory made their lives better)

This post is going to set the scene -- later posts will hopefully be more cheerful, or at least amusing (due to small village politics).

Fact the first: I have a bucket load of known medical conditions, most of which are very well controlled by drugs and do not affect my daily life much. (Come the apocalypse, I may be close to the head of the queue to shuffle off, but if the apocalypse arrives, that may be a blessing).

Fact the second: In that bucket load of conditions, I include asthma and atrial fibrillation. In 2018 I had a pacemaker fitted, plus an AV node ablation (which made me 100% pace-maker dependent) which means I don't suffer from the AF symptoms any more even though I need to take blood thinners because the AF is hidden but hasn't gone away. Still nothing to worry about.

Fact the third: Joy unbounded -- I have heart failure, according to my new cardiologist. Heart transplant time!  At least heart transplant assessment time. In the meantime, drink beetroot juice (amazingly it works, plus when you're having a bone marrow biopsy, a description of the side-effects can make the nurses collapse with giggles). I suspect the heart transplant assessment is on indefinite hold.

Fact the fourth: Yes but.. no but..... yes but... we don't know. Some routine blood tests intended to rule out really rare stuff... suggested something rare should be ruled in instead. Cue referral to the local hematology department plus the only really 'rare stuff centre' in the UK, which is in London.

Fact the fifth: I do not recommend having a bone marrow biopsy to any one. Full stop. The doctor and nurses do their best, but... let us draw a veil.

Fact the sixth: Scheduled to go to London starting Tuesday 24th March for various tests that can't be done elsewhere (the necessary equipment and expertise doesn't exist elsewhere in the UK) to confirm diagnosis and stage the disease.

Fact the seventh: Well, rats, that virus. London appointment cancelled (woman with suspected nasty disease should not take 4 taxis and 2 train journeys to an overwhelmed hospital). The specialist centre will contact my cardiologist and local haematologist to discuss treatment options. At least I'll get the train fares refunded. Scant comfort -- I'd rather have the disease staged in the circumstances. Plus there were some lovely local restaurants the like of which I'll never see around here -- I was looking forward to developing a meaningful relationship with JustEast and Deliveroo.

Fact the eighth: Phone appointment with hematologist scheduled in early April... but requires a blood test beforehand. Must ring my GP's surgery to ask whether I should brave the hospital blood test department, or a nurse at the surgery. Likely to be a weekly event, so the answer is important.

And so, here we are. Treatment for 'really rare stuff' consists of chemotherapy, so there's a balancing act between 'make her more vulnerable ' and 'make her better'. I await the deliberations of the Eurovision juries...

On a practical plane, I have canceled the cleaners while still intending to pay them (why wouldn't you, if you can afford to do it?) and perhaps commissioned them to deliver my regular monthly medicines. I have asked the gardener to continue coming, as we don't have to interact physically and I don't want to spend my isolation looking at lawn creeping up the windows. I have a garage full of cat litter, and a utility room full of cat food; and of course they can dine out on me for a while if I succumb.

I have 3 weeks of meals in the freezer plus some dried and tinned stuff;I have a random set of delivery slots booked -- and by the time they run out, I hope arrangements have been regularized for those of us who really should not be queuing in supermarket cat parks.

Tomorrow's installment: I will share with you the local village response.