An aye for an eye…

Cat on a hot new roof: Pixel checks it over!

Writers remember everything… especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he’ll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar.
    Art consists of the persistence of memory.
— Stephen King: Misery

I have written on here before about the NHS at its worst (for me). But on Saturday I experienced it at its very best. Before I tell you how, I need to take a few steps back, and tell you the why.

Last Tuesday, after six weeks of seemingly continuous rain, my kitchen and bathroom roof was replaced (very loudly); and I finally removed the bucket and pan from under the spot where all the water had collected in the roof void and made its way through. Then, when the scaffolding was dismantled on Wednesday afternoon, I went and sat outside with my cat Pixel amongst the cement dust and general mess, and reflected on how we’d muddled our way through from the morning I slept in; Storm Floris found the weaknesses in the old roof; and I woke up to an inch of water soaked into the kitchen floormats and collected in poor Pixel’s food-bowls, as well as splashed up the walls and kitchen door (where the weak spot was). It could have been worse, I suppose. But it felt like a disaster… — an expensive disaster.

Sometime while I was sat outside, some cheeky fly or midge bit me on the face. This is not unusual. I keep baseball caps hung on the handles of both front and back doors to remind me to cover my head: as, ever since middle age, I have become a target for small insects. I used to be completely off-limits to them when younger, and could walk through a cloud of Scottish midgies unmarked. But now they seem to be making up for lost time.

What was unusual was that I woke up on Thursday with a red welt on the top of my right cheekbone, accompanied by the most astounding itch. Standard operating procedure: slap on the Antihisan cream (which I always keep with me); take a couple of Cetirizine (ditto); and it will go: as it always does.

But it didn’t. By that afternoon, I had what medics lovingly call a ‘festoon’ under my right eye. And the itching hadn’t improved: although the redness had eased (or it may just have been buried under all the cream I’d been rendering my face with… — by now including Savlon). My right eye was starting to feel sticky, as well: so in went my sodium cromoglicate eyedrops. When these didn’t help, I threw in some Hycosan Dual ones, as well. (And, yes, thank you: I do have a well-stocked medicine cabinet. Unfortunately, I need to.)

After literally sleeping on it (although not for very long), on Friday morning it didn’t look much different, I thought; but, after a lie-down after what should have been my lunch — which I couldn’t face… — this time making sure that I lay on my left-hand side, I came downstairs to find that my festoon had been joined — literally — by some puffiness above my eye. It was at this point that I consulted Doctor Google; found some scary stuff about sinusitis becoming periorbital cellulitis; ignored it; and put a cold compress on my face, instead; then decided to wait for it to sort itself out, as I knew it would.

The compress worked, temporarily. As did the second one. But by Friday night, the swelling was back: and, what was worse was that it was worse.

On Saturday, I thus woke up with a festoon that was rapidly morphing into a full set of curtains: and closed ones at that. The swelling below my right eye was in danger of meeting the swelling above: and I obviously needed to do more than “wait for it to sort itself out” — especially as the mirror confirmed a growing resemblance to John Hurt in The Elephant Man. I had no appetite; and my body temperature was raised a degree or so, as well. (I have Brugada syndrome: a rare heart condition that can be exacerbated by fever. If looking like poor Joseph Merrick wasn’t enough to encourage me to seek medical help, then the thought of yet another cardiac arrest was.) Strangely, by this point, the mark originally left by whatever small flidge had tasted of my obviously delicious blood really was imperceptible on my freshly-stretched skin.

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Being severely hard of hearing, I opted to contact NHS 111 via their website. To be honest, it was a little frustrating, as there was no category to cover my exact case. However, I filled in as much as I could, and then got a little miffed that there was no way of indicating why I had used the Web rather than the phone. Anyway, I put my AirPods Max on over my hearing aids, to wait for their callback; and, at Pixel’s behest, went into the kitchen to feed her.

And then, just as I was putting her bowl down, the phone rang… — a Carlisle number; and no more than ten minutes since I had sent my information. Yes, it was 111; the male nurse spoke clearly; I was asked a few questions, and my responses listened to calmly and carefully. Suddenly the voice changed, and a doctor came on the line as well. He was obviously worried about me, and explained why I needed to be seen urgently: covering much of what I had read online, but with a lot more feeling. (Richard III may have lost his kingdom for a horse, but I wasn’t willing to lose my eye for an insect.) His secretary would call me back in a few minutes with an appointment at West Cumberland Hospital outpatients. And so she did… — almost immediately. “How did two o’clock sound?” It was just after twelve; I was still in my pyjamas; hadn’t eaten… — it sounded perfect.

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Worried about parking — it had sometimes taken me nearly an hour on previous occasions — I arrived at the hospital about ten-past one, and found a space immediately. Of course, it was Saturday! And I’d never seen outpatients so empty!

I had hardly sat down when a young doctor called my name, and in I went to the consulting room, forty-five minutes early. She was wonderfully thoughtful and comprehensive: even adding my long list of medications to the hospital’s records so that any prescriptions she issued could be checked for interactions. (When will UK hospitals be able to access our GPs’ databases?) She was also one of the rare people who remembered I was deaf throughout our conversation. She certainly made sure that I knew to report back on Monday if the swelling hadn’t eased, and/or my temperature was still raised.

By the time two o’clock rolled around, I was struggling to find a space in Morrisons’ car park, instead. The doctor had sent prescriptions — antibiotics for the infection, and steroids for the swelling — directly to their pharmacy; and, after a short wait, I was on my way home with a small brown paper bag containing a pair of neatly-labelled white boxes.

It had rained all afternoon: and Pixel was huddled up on the sofa, waiting.

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I am sat in bed writing this — not feeling very well, to be honest (a combination of the last throes of the infection and the drugs’ always-unwanted side-effects): which may explain why I started typing the first draft just as Sunday clicked over to Monday. The good news is that the swelling has all but vanished, and my temperature is almost back to its normal (for me) 36.1°C. Strangely, the bite-mark has become more obvious again (and I could swear that it still itches): but I’m sure it will fade with time… — and if it doesn’t, then I’m old enough not to care: it will be just one of a growing pack; just another scar. And, as Cormac McCarthy once wrote: “Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”

It never ever stopped raining…