I have been ill since Tuesday, July 9th, but I think we have crossed the Great Divide.
Thursday morning, I got up to go the loo, and collapsed in the hallway as I came back upstairs. (Our next house is going to have two bathrooms – one on each floor!) Blazer was quite concerned about me – snuffling and wuffling – and I remember telling him to “Go get Papa”. I didn’t hear him, but The Squire said the dog had scratched at the door and whined long enough to awaken him. Between the two of us, we managed to get me to my feet and back into bed, where The Squire insisted he was going to call 911 and have me hauled off to the hospital. I kept yelling “No, no, no” until he gave up on that idea. I think I was yelling, but I was probably whispering. At any rate I was pretty firm about my feelings. The only reason I didn’t fall back wards down the steps was that I already on my hands and knees
When he got up at 8:00 he said he had some errands to run, and I asked him to take my records from Patient First up to our GP’s office and see if they could fit me in someplace. Friday at noon. Friday morning, The Squire had to help me get dressed, which ended up with both of us in a fit of giggles. I was so weak I couldn’t sit up unaided; he found my underwear, and pulled me into a sitting position, and I’d roll right over like a Weeble. The T-shirt was easy, but I managed to get all tangled up in the straps on my jumper. He made up the sofa bed, helped me downstairs, tucked me in, and then went over to church to do some Property Warden stuff. Our rector came back with him to see for himself what shape I was in, and stayed around to help me into the car, then waited in the doctor’s office to see if I was going to be hauled off to the hospital in spite of it all.
You know things are bad when the doctor comes in, takes a look at you, and says, “Oh, my goodness!” Well, with a fever of 102, severe dehydration, and BP of 98/52 it’s not surprising I wasn’t feeling so hot. The doctor sent an script for a different antibiotic to our pharmacy, but The Squire had to hand-carry the one for a stronger cough syrup. As it turns out, that one didn’t get filled, as it had an ingredient similar to Oxycodone; I have a fatal allergy to The Big O, and the pharmacist, bless him, didn’t want to kill me.
I slept solidly all night, but The Squire looked tired this morning. He said he woke up every two hours and came down to look in on me. “Just watching you breathe”, he said.
I do feel a good bit better, thank you, and honestly feel I’ve turned a corner.