What a week. NHS in overdrive.

Quite apart from my own bladder which since Botox has completely gone bananas. Infection. Spasm. Leaking. Like a sieve. my GP insisting I have the the correct amount of Doxazosin. No, I do not. 4 tablets a day makes 120 + per month. Not 112 for two months. I’ve requested a change every week for the last 6 months. To no avail. Always run out.

Meanwhile both my parents have covid. I managed to get antivirals to them. They’ve been hit badly and with many other medical news for my mum it’s really crap. Getting past their gatekeeper -Rottweiler -trained -GP receptionist, has been a triumph. Well, eventually!

Meanwhile other friends, neighbours , family and others have been or are recovering from hospital.

I visited Min on Sunday. You should have seen me wrestling with the compulsory apron dispenser. #NoPerforations. Then it was Daniel’s turn. He ended up with a postage stamp size bit of plastic on his front. Arm straps round his neck. Neck hole over one shoulder. We could not stop laughing. Min was asleep so we could watch every visitor grappling with the same issue. Min began to wake up, and giggle. She’d heard our very word.

The ward itself was no modern bay thing. This had Twenty beds in two neat rows. Every old lady fast asleep. A sort of Victorian scene meets dystopian drama. Nurses chatting and swapping photos on their phones. We quite expected Lancelot Spratt or Hattie Jacques to stride in. Alas no, just more apron adorned visitors, totally ignored by the nurses.

We did notice Min’s white board. It was above her head. Name: xxx Consultant: xxx except in this case it was…

Name: Mrs Margaret

Consultant: Own Commode

What!.

We moved her warm water to within reach. Giggled about everything and nothing. Hopefully we can get her out soon.