Not a heart attack

I spent last night having a heart scare in the excellent Emergency Department at Plymouth’s Derriford Hospital.

Since Sunday evening, my shoulders, upper arms and neck have been extremely painful. Constantly, heavily, stiffly, horrible. Okay, so ME does that. I just accepted I was in a bad flare.

Tuesday afternoon, I got nausea and diarrhea, developed a high temperature, and was intermittently delirious. Okay, I thought, I have a bug. Another day, same shit. Upper body parts were still very painful. In fact it was a lot worse.

At 5pm Tuesday afternoon I got a very bad pain in my breastbone, like a chisel being hammered in and twisting. Very bad pain, and it lasted an hour. At that point, I was thinking, hm, these here are some primary and secondary symptoms of a heart attack. I still thought it was ME plus, but I was alert to the possible alternative.

6pm, I vomited for the first time since the chest pain started. Never a pleasant experience, but within a few minutes the chest pain dissolved. That’s good, I thought. Obviously not a heart attack.

Janette didn’t agree and when I refused to go to the hospital she got, how shall I put it, a bit shouty. :)

Then the big chest pain came back and my argument folded.

Bev went with me to hospital. We were there from 7pm to 2am, and they ran exhaustive ECG and blood tests and chest x-rays and everything, waited a while then ran them again, and again.

All this time I was feeling more and more desperately ill, but I was able to separate the normal effects of bad ME from the unusual symptoms I’d suffered earlier, and which by now were lifting. Except for the nausea, etc.

The staff of Derriford Hospital Emergency Department were fantastic. Every nurse and doctor I talked with was lovely, caring, fully engaged, and friendly. Also, brilliantly, every single one of them accepted ME as the real and serious illness it is. I can’t describe what a relief that is, when you’re ill and in a medical environment.

Maybe the bad old days are over? I’d love to think so.

Anyway, it turns out my initial self-diagnosis was correct. I do know my body. But Janette was also correct, in that I needed checking out.

Progress report

http://davidbridger.tumblr.com/image/115468279820

Two months on from the eye surgery. Learning to function on the computer while we wait to see how it’ll turn out. My surgeon says it’ll be another ten months or so before we know for certain how much sight I’ll have in that eye.

Managing to write 1k words per evening on The Honesty of Tigers and happy with that, although squinting gives me a helluva headache by midnight.

A short story, entitled Blue, from me to you with love.

Have you found Blue yet?

Danny and Clare are no longer enemies, but her texts still carry echoes of their brief war.

And she knows exactly what he’ll be doing at four o’clock this afternoon, or on any afternoon of the week. He’s taking his sketchpad and a mug of hot red berry tea outside, to sit on their love seat under the arbour.

From there, he’ll watch the day’s deep darkness grow inside the forest, and possibly he’ll draw the wildflower garden again.

Or, more probably, he’ll draw Blue again.

The carved oak bench was his seventh wedding anniversary gift to Clare, and the sturdy arbour above was her gift to him on that same bright winter’s day.

No flowers or fruit have ever issued from the complicated ceiling of grapevines she wove through it.

Fallen vine leaves lie in a thin new carpet beneath his boots, and the afternoon air carries its first chill of autumn. He nips back into the hallway for his old combat jacket, inhaling its friendly forest smell as he shrugs it on, and trying again to jam the front door open against the springy resistance of a knee-high pile of junk mail in the tiled porch.

As soon as the house was theirs, back in those happy newlywed days and enjoying the first flush of his commercial success, they’d turned it around to face the forest.

What had been its imposing Victorian front elevation became a silent dismissal of the outside world, with the old front door bricked-up and all the windows shuttered. They hadn’t even used any of the old front rooms, preferring to focus their domestic life on the impressionist wildflower garden out back and the deep ancient woodland that all but encircled them.

Clare had removed the old front path and laid a new one around to their entrance at the rear.

He doesn’t reply to her text until he’s settled on the bench and taken his first sip of steaming tea.

Still looking.

Danny and Blue have been good for each other.

A human baby stolen from her cradle and named for her eyes that are sharp and startlingly different from the big golden-flecked brown ones all around her, she’s grown in courage and wisdom until she commands the respect of her adopted people and leads her own guerrilla band of fae fighters in the Forest War.

Ten years ago, it was she who helped Danny to build his rapid-rise career as a comic book artist.

And, yes, Clare was correct when she said that, in Blue, he described his perfect love.

His current sketchbook is filled with page after page of her face, but not even the hint of a storyline. The Fae Forest series is stalled. He’s left her in an impossible climactic situation, and he can’t bear to write her out of it.

He can’t let her go.

He sketches her again with quick, sure pencil strokes, sitting alongside him on the bench and sipping tea.

She’s so real he could talk with her.

“This is the last of the red berry tea. Clare picked and dried the berries. I don’t know which ones are safe.”

Blue doesn’t answer. She stares into the forest from his page.

He watches with her until his legs get cold.

Clare’s absence is a ghost in the room Danny’s life has shrunk into since she left him. She stares out from dark dusty corners framed by dancing firelight shadows, and notes without comment that their faded old leather sofa is now his bed.

He slumps on the solid slate bench inside the inglenook fireplace, stretching out his legs and wriggling warmth into his be-socked toes while his little pan of porridge oats simmers and burps quietly beside the open flames. He’s nearly out of oats, all out of tea, and he toasted his last slice of stale bread a week ago.

And the larder isn’t his only empty cupboard. Autumn is killing light bulbs every evening, and he’s down to his single remaining church candle.

Sooner or later he’ll have to walk to the village shop, and pretend not to notice the sideways glances. People in the village always liked Clare, but they’ve never been sure about him. He supposes the kindest description they could apply is eccentric. Those who prefer blunt honesty will use odd. Or weird. He can imagine them calling him the artist, with a certain inflection of the voice and a knowing look shared.

And they’ll be right.

He expects they wonder what she ever saw in him.

He doesn’t know, either.

They probably thought they knew what he saw in her. Practical Clare: doing everything for him, managing his everyday life so he could get on with creating Blue’s fantasy world.

All the way down to making sure his direct debits were in order before she left, so he wouldn’t lose electricity or water while living alone in his little world of make believe. Love in action, despite the sorrowful circumstances.

His heart swells with grief at the enormity of everything he left unsaid to her.

Because although all those things the villagers believe are true, they’re not the whole truth.

He’s always loved her.

He always will.

But if he ever knew what it was that she saw in him, he can’t remember now. She certainly never needed him. And it’s certainly no one’s fault but his own that he’s lost her.

He eats his porridge from the pan, and the final wooden spoonful of it is halfway to his lips when someone raps the heavy brass knocker on his front door. He pauses, listening to see if they’ll knock again or give up and go away.

They knock again. Firmly. Non-negotiably. Whoever it is, they’re not going away.

He laces on his boots and steps into the hallway, cupping his palm around the candle to shield its flame when it struggles in a dry draught. He’s already homesick for his fireside seat and his lonely solitude.

A pale moonlit movement looms outside the green and ruby stained glass at the top of the door, and a single set of fingertips drums a brief scale against the pane.

It’s Clare! She’s the only one who ever does that. She’s come home!

He throws open the door and falls back a step in shock.

Not Clare.

Blue.

And Clare.

Clare and Blue. Blue and Clare, together in one person, standing on his doorstep, eyes shining in his flickering candlelight.

She stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek tenderly. She is wild and beautiful. Her scent is of the rich earth, and light lavender, and freshly fallen leaves.

Out there in the shifting gloom at the edge of the forest, her band of fae fighters crouch in postures alert and tense, their entire attention focused outwards at potential dangers from the deep darkness beneath the trees.

“We need you.” She takes his hand to draw him into the forest, if he will come.

His heart hammers. He wants to voice all the brooding thoughts he’s stirred and steeped throughout these last silent weeks, but he can’t squeeze them past the big lump in his throat. He can only drink in the vision of her, and marvel as love and happiness sing in his veins.

I need you.” She squeezes his hand urgently. “I love you.” Her beautiful eyes pierce his confusion and shred his final scrap of uncertainty.

He lifts his combat jacket from the newel post, sets his candle flame to the mound of junk mail in the tiled porch, pulls the door shut behind him with a quiet click, and walks with her out into the night.

So, this eye thing

Thanks, everyone, for all your kind messages over this past month while I’ve been recovering from the eye surgery. You’re lovely.

Today was my follow-up appointment with the consultant eye surgeon who performed the operation. I hoped to get some good news from him.

Got home from hospital five hours ago, but they put so many drops in my eyes I couldn’t see to walk around, never mind type.

The surgeon says my eye is healing at the rate he would expect, and the gas he injected during surgery is dropping at the rate he would expect. My vision is still too blurred (from the gas, the surgery, and the 4x per day x3 different drops) for him to guess how much sight will return. He says it will be a year before we know the final result. And he repeated that there is definitely permanent damage from before the surgery and there’s a chance I won’t get any usable sight back because of that. What alarmed him was the pressure behind both my eyes, so he prescribed another bottle of drops (x3 per day) for that.

So it isn’t bad news. In fact, apart from the apparently fixable pressure thing, it’s actually no news, which as we all know is often good news.

I’ll take that with a chip butty.

 

Thank you again. Love you. x

Surgery tomorrow

Hi. I’ve been quiet because I damaged my right eye and it’s a bit serious.

You know that lung infection I had through December and January? Well, four weeks ago, while I was enjoying one of my middle of the night coughing/choking fits, something in my eye blew.

Turns out it was my retina. It’s detached and badly damaged. So many holes, it looks like a piece of lace, with the biggest hole right in the centre. That’s the most important part of the retina for sight.

As things stand, I’m blind in that eye. And, because it took me four weeks to recover from the lung infection sufficiently to get to my doctor and have him refer me to a specialist, it may well be too late for them to rescue my sight. They’re going to try though, and my urgent surgery will take place tomorrow.

So. We shall see what happens.

Wish me well. x