Bruised #small stone 6
The bruise on the back of my hand has blossomed like a strange demonic rose. “That’s going to bruise,” the nurse told me and she was right.
From a tiny red bud where the cannula failed to slide neatly into my vein, livid petals have emerged, spreading to cover most of the hand. The centre turned a deep angry blue red, before the dying blood seeped further under the skin, discolouring it in a fascinating and horribly compelling rainbow, changing each day. Most petals are now the brownish colour of rain-rotten roses fading into a sickly yellow at the edges. The furthest end of the mark, where the vein enters my wrist has a hint of green.
I am so tired of blood, in all its incarnations.
I had a pretty awful weekend and not one I planned either. Early on Saturday morning I woke with very bad pain in my lower abdomen and after taking some tablets, I found I was becoming more unwell and realising that I was going to pass out, woke my husband up. I’m too tired to write much but as a result of the pain, my blood pressure dropped through the floor and I started to lose consciousness. The ambulance came and whisked me away, a lovely paramedic called Steve gave me morphine to try and deal with the pain.
I spent all weekend and yesterday in hospital, but without what I would call proper resolution for the problem. No scans but those for life-or-death patients are available at that hospital during the weekend so I was kept in till Monday, and even then didn’t get one. There is something fundamentally wrong with a hospital that doesn’t get that people get sick and injured at weekends and make appropriate arrangements.
Hospital is not a good place for a sensitive spirit; noise and lights and constant lack of privacy are only a few of the things that make resting impossible, so I am very glad to get home to rest.
I have had some interesting thoughts, but am still to befuddled to put them down so it may be a week or two before I can write them.