Category / Medication

by Isla

Pain clinic

In which I’m not very funny

Last week I went along to a pain clinic appointment.

Middle-aged, male doctor, blunt opener:

‘I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t know why you’re here.’

Not the most auspicious start.

The barrage of honesty continued. I had the wrong type of pain (he only does localised pain – one joint, for preference), and I was still under investigation so shouldn’t have been sent to him.

He’d mis-read my notes and wasn’t all that happy when I pointed out the mix up (‘I don’t make things up. I don’t lie.’) I upped the amount of solicitousness in my tone and added a hefty sprinkle of ‘I’m so sorry’, and ‘of course’.

I queried whether he had any advice on painkillers, and he assumed I was trying to scalp him for opiates:

‘You shouldn’t be taking opiates. I don’t want to see another drug-addled patient walking through my door.’

Pause.

I made an attempt to explain that opiates were all I’ve got, given that we don’t have a way to treat the muscle behaviour because we don’t know what’s going on.

‘My best advice is don’t lose your job. And don’t take opiates.’

Pause.

‘You’re well educated? You google everything? Know things better than your consultants?’

He’d nailed that one – I’m an inveterate googler, but I’m also wise enough to go into medical appointments with an open mind. It was rapidly closing in this particular appointment.

‘You could join a Pain Management Programme. There’s one here, but we don’t have a psychologist and you need a good psychologist, that’s what you really need.’

It was around this point that I crumpled into tears, thereby annoyingly underlining his point.

The nurse was sent for some hand towels (I foolishly seem to see consultants without tissues to hand), and the tone rapidly shifted from ‘honesty’ to ‘I really wish I could do something for you.’

He described me as ‘delightful’ and ‘distressed’ in his letter to my GP. I feel like I stepped into another century.

Dead end.

by Isla

Poppies

In which there’s a price

Painkillers are saviours. With them, there’s a chance that things won’t escalate and I’ll get back to normal much sooner. With them, I’m less likely to do something stupid to make the pain go away. They’re an occasional safety net, a buffer that stops my brain from blowing its tolerance gauge.

But they also coat my brain in lethargy and sew my eyelids shut. They drain me of saliva and dangle me by the nape of my neck so my limbs hang heavy and helpless. My words come slow and cracked, and bruises bloom on my shins and shoulders.

Today, I think they’re here to collect.

by Isla

Nosedive

In which I recount a tale of woe and bile

*This is basically one long piece about vomiting, probably not a great accompaniment for food… (Unless that floats your boat).

Ah Cathay Pacific. Forever wedded to vomit in my mind. It was a very unhappy union.

I was on a long haul flight from China to London and had been cramping merrily for hours. Ibuprofen wasn’t making a dent, despite inadvisable dosages. 

My main mistake was choosing to eat airplane food in a belated attempt to line my stomach. 

My gorge rose with no warning. Gargantuan and whale like, it buckled my face in a wild bid for freedom. I attempted to keep all orifices closed but was scuppered by my nose, which released a high speed spray of tiny pasta bows – all over the business man next to me. 

His suit was wrapped in a lap blanket (he’d clearly done something right in a former life), but he didn’t seem particularly comforted. He reached to prod me, caught sight of my bulging cheeks, and wisely opted to call the air hostess instead. 

At this point, the flood gates opened. 

A stream of hostesses approached me in masks and gloves with dozens of tiny Cathay Pacific wet wipes, the scent of which promptly launched another volley of vomit. 

I assume they thought I was carrying some virulent disease that could land them all in quarantine, so I appreciate that they were willing to come close enough to drop the wet wipes off. 

Interminable hours later, I arrived in London on wobbly legs and in a nose-hair dissolving cloud of scent (though I had been wearing a mustard and brown striped jumper, which turns out to be the best vomit camouflage gear you could ask for). I was left very much alone on the coach back to Oxford, free to concentrate on willing my stomach contents to stay put.

My parents picked me up (they were even willing to make physical contact, which is a sign of true love), and watched me with worried faces as I wove toward the car. 

I arrived at the boot, and promptly booted over the back wheel – much to the shock of various tourists who clearly hadn’t spent much time in a university town before. 

My parents, ever the heroes, actually let me inside the car rather than strapping me to the top, and got me back to safety and a shower at record speed.

I still find Cathay Pacific wet wipes lurking amongst my things. A small plasticky reminder of this proud occasion.

That jumper got made into dust cloths.

by Isla

Turtling

In which I learn a painful lesson

I was carrying out the arcane and unusual hobby of pulling on my pants – knickers, not trousers – on Thursday, when one of my sacroiliac joints gave a forbidding clunk.

Possibly a(nother) sign from the Universe, this one telling me not to wear pants? (On previous occasions I’ve been putting on trousers, reaching for things, drying my feet, playing catch, or plugging something in, so I guess those are all out too.)

I’m now marooned on my mattress like an upturned turtle (or like a beached walrus as my mother flatteringly suggests). Walking is currently a spine-drenching shriek-inducing slow drag. My neighbours must be thinking I’m having quite the time of it, given the gasps, moans, swearing and thunks I’ve been making when trying to get to the loo. At least alternate reality me is enjoying herself. 

Notes for Future Self

  1. Keep the loo roll holder topped up (or else no loo paper for you).
  2. Move all necessities to lower cupboards (but not too low). Or raise the entire floor of the flat. Or get taller.
  3. Stock more painkiller packs by your bed, ditto emergency food for stomach lining. Don’t eat emergency food in non-emergencies, idiot.
  4. Keep antiperspirant next to your bed. For the love of all the gods.
  5. Those fan remotes you thought were stupid? Turns out, not so stupid. Dig those out.
  6. Take the rubbish out whenever possible so it doesn’t fester for days when you can’t move. Adopt a zero tolerance policy for flies.
  7. Rig charger cables to loop over the top of the bed so you don’t spend fifteen minutes wriggling millimetre by millimetre to reach them.
  8. Keep instant edible things in the flat that aren’t just raw tomatoes and celery.
  9. Get a bottom buddy. [NB. Not what it sounds like] [NB2. Not much better than what it sounds like].
  10. Skip the pants.
by Isla

Iceberg

In which I had to go out

Chalk sketch of a lion by Isla Kennedy - Medically Unexplained

I went to choir on Thursday.*

* Actual process:

1. Wake up and scan through body. 

Is there cramping? [Y/N]

Will this cramping escalate and prevent you from going? [Y/N]

If “Y”, message choir director. Experience extreme guilt. Skip to step 9.

If “N”, eat, then take painkillers. 

2. Are you still cramping or has cramping started since this morning? [Y/N]

Will you have to take (more) painkillers? [Y/N]

If “Y”, half an hour before taking them, eat to line stomach in order to avoid gastritis.

3. Are you still cramping? [Y/N]

If “Y”, eat, take painkillers around an hour before getting on the bus.

4. Make sure you bring a vomit bag, tissues, water, more painkillers. 

5. Select the bus seat least likely to induce cramp of the ones available. Do not get on the bus if there is no seat. 

Sit bolt upright and as still as you can. 

Simultaneously attempt to spread out and wedge yourself securely.

Manspread without upsetting the person next to you.

Try to relax.

6. While in choir, hydrate, relax, and roll shoulders.

Sing.

7. Are you still cramping? [Y/N]

If “Y”, during the mid-practice break take more painkillers. 

8. Is the cramp getting worse? [Y/N]

If “Y”, get off the bus early and walk the rest of the way home. 

9. Is the cramp still bad? [Y/N]

If “Y”, move pillows and duvet to the floor.

Eat to line stomach.

Take painkillers.

Apply ibuprofen gel.

Apply ice packs.

Move plastic bin within arm’s reach.

10. Leave food and water on the floor nearby in case you need to take more painkillers in four hours’ time. 

11. Attempt to sleep on the floor. 

12. If cramping escalates, wake in four hours, eat, take painkillers. 

13. Apply hope protocol.

by Isla

Pills

In which I experience a difference of opinion

Pencil sketch of a Chinese lion by Isla Kennedy - Medically Unexplained

‘I never take pills,’ she says, with a look of constipated pain at the very thought.

We were in the bomb shelter of the GP, walls so plastered in paper notices that it’s beginning to look like a serial killer den.

She chose the seat next to me – ignoring the holy rule that thou shalt always attempt to leave a gap between you and any other occupant (a rule obeyed throughout the land in public toilets and transport services).

She also ignored my headphones and the ‘Vacant’ sign I keep plastered across my forehead when I venture out into the world.

It wasn’t entirely clear why she thought it was a good idea to advocate against pills to someone seeking medical assistance, who would surely statistically be more likely to be taking pills than your average person. Loneliness? Evangelical calling? Verbal diarrhoea?

My non-committal ‘hm’ has no effect.

‘I like to only put natural things in my system, you know what they say -‘ cue gurgling laugh, ‘- you’ve got to treat your body like a temple!’

I feel marginally affronted. I do treat my body like a temple. It’s just one of those temples with giant plates of milk on the floor surrounded by hordes and hordes of rats. Or one of those abandoned ones that’s all dusty statues, cracked floors, and inadvisable man traps.

Oh, and pills. Lots and lots of pills.

I tune back in.

‘… And I get this fantastic health tonic from that Chinese acupuncture place by the station, you know the one?’

I do know the one. It has a real focus in its window displays on curing male genital droop. 

‘It tastes foul of course,’ she continues, ‘but it’s just fantastic for skin!’ 

She runs eager eyes over my face in the hope of finding a skin condition at which to advertise. It’s one of the few times I’m cheerful about the ‘invisible’ part of invisible illness. She bucks back up, undaunted.

‘And it’s all natural of course. No pills. And you know, the Chinese are very smart and wise.’

Ah the sweet, sweet taste of reductionist racism. I find it amusing that traditional Chinese medicine practitioners in China are busy turning liquid medicine into nice white pills in order to increase their reputability. Here, the more eye of newt people can see staring back at them, the better.

‘And I just think that people really shouldn’t take so many! It can’t be good for the body, you know?’

At this point, my tolerance gauge blows a gasket. 

I finally turn to look at her and weigh my words.

You don’t take pills because you are well. I’m really pleased for you. That’s really lucky.

People who are not well sometimes have to take pills. Pills can help them manage their illness.

Pills do not generally cause their illness in the first place. Sometimes they have side effects, but these have to be measured against the impact of the illness.

I open my mouth to speak –

– Her name gets called.

‘It’s just ridiculous how long it takes to get a Pill check here, isn’t it?!’ She scoops up a pale pink bag and heads down the corridor.

When she walks past five minutes later, she wags a prescription slip in my direction as a goodbye.

Exit, pursued by a scowl.