My Worst Moment of 2024

So as 2024 draws to a close I’m thinking about what the worst moment of the year was. Was it the seemingly endless array of hospital and GP appointments I attended? The constant pain I’ve found myself in since my illness and operation in 2023? Losing my job and the support network it provided at a time when that support network was needed more than ever?

Nope. For me the worst moment in 2024 was losing Tinker. Her passing didn’t hit me hard because it was unexpected, or because she was at a relatively young age. It hit me like a ton of bricks because of what she did for me.

A Sudden Aversion to Christmas Songs

A few weeks ago, with the help of Wikipedia, I made a few Christmas playlists on Spotify. The playlists contained songs from the seventies and eighties that had made a dent on the UK charts. The usual suspects were there, all arranged neatly in chronological order.

This morning I decided to try and get into the Christmas spirit a little, so after I got out of the shower I connected my phone to my Bluetooth speaker and fired up the playlist, but when the songs began the music didn’t achieve the effect I’d originally envisioned.

The Festivus Airing of Grievances 2024

So today is Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us. If you do not know what the hell I’m talking about then either Google it or dig out your old Seinfeld box set.

Anyway, it is a Festivus tradition that one should air their grievances to their family and friends. If I were to do that it would probably take me an age, and if some of my family (and I use that word loosely) are reading this they are probably getting ready to leave a comment here. They can feel safe in the knowledge that this grievance is not aimed at them. It is aimed at a company, one of the many I’ve been employed by during my working life.

You see, if you’ve been reading this blog you’d know that about nine months ago I lost my job because of my ongoing health problems, mainly because I couldn’t provide a date for when I’d be able to return to work.

December 13th

December 13th, 2024. It’s that time of year again when my thoughts turn to someone who is no longer, because it was forty-one years ago today that my Mum passed away at the age of 53. I was just 12 years old when this happened.

I’ve found myself thinking about her, and about Dad, a hell of a lot over the past eighteen months, particularly when I was in hospital. As I approached my 52nd birthday I really thought that I could be heading down the same road she did.

I also found myself thinking about how Mum and Dad would have handled my being in that situation. I quickly came to the conclusion that was a daft thing to think about. If they had been alive I have no doubt that they would have been fussing over me and making sure everything was okay because, simply put, they were my Mum and Dad, and that was what they did.

I've Got Some Nerve

I know what you’re thinking, it’s been two days since his hospital appointment and he still hasn’t told us how he got on. I have been busy you know, looking for a new jacket on eBay and ordering cuddly versions of Krampus and the Grinch for my Christmas display.

So here goes. For the third time in three weeks I ventured to the big hospital to see someone I hadn’t seen since last year, the surgeon who operated me. If you’ve been reading the stuff I put on here you’d know that the cardiology team suggested getting in touch with the thoracic team because I was still in a great deal of pain from my diaphragm repair and chest drain operations last year.

I was more than surprised to get an appointment with them just a few days after I contacted them, but then again, given what I went through last year perhaps it shouldn’t be such a surprise.

So I Made It To 53

Those that know my family's history will also know how the number 53 is a pretty big and dramatic number for some, especially considering those we lost when they reached that age.

I really thought that I'd be joining them this time last year as I lay in hospital stitched up, taped up, tubes in various parts of my body, with so many needles having been jabbed into me and feeling pain the likes of which I never want to feel again.

The truth is I'm still nowhere near a hundred percent, but getting so many birthday wishes means a lot to me, and I will gladly take that support with me when I'm back in hospital for further treatment soon.

You Meet All Sorts on a Hospital Ward

It’s been about a year since the last of my hospital stays and my operation, and because of this I’ve been taking a trip down memory lane, recalling some of the unpleasant things I had to go through.

My thoughts have been wandering to the time I spent on the Acute Medical Unit ward at the Norfolk & Norwich Hospital when I first went back in. The various AMUs are a little step-up from the Accident and Emergency department. Patients with a wide array of ailments were kept there before they were transferred to specialist units.

For instance, the bed to the left of me in the ward I was in featured an array of characters, a young lad with a kidney complaint, an old boy with a broken leg who ripped down one of my curtains because he felt cold, and another man who ended up urinating in the corridor just outside the door.

So What Did the Surgery Have to Say?

It’s been about a month since I posted my letter of complaint on this old blog of mine. It’s got quite a few hints since then, so it’s about time I told you what my local GP surgery said in reply.

But before I do that here’s a little reminder of why I sent it to them. You see, after everything that I’ve been through in the past year I considered not bothering, but when their mental health nurse said that perhaps I would get some form of closure about the way they treated me if I complained.

So what did they say? Did they accept responsibility for the misdiagnosis? Did the reception team accept any responsibility for the way they treated me?

I Can't Really Stop Breathing, Can I?

Recently medical types have summed up my situation perfectly:

If I had sprained my wrist or twisted my ankle it would be strapped up and I'd be told not to use it or put any weight on it.
But because it was my diaphragm that was operated on it's a completely different situation. I can't rest my diaphragm because I need it to breath and it's in use 24/7. That's why it's so painful at times and that's why it's taking so long to recover from my operation.

It's getting to the point now where I'm kind of getting used to things being this way.

The Day I Complained About My Treatment

Today marks the first anniversary of the day I was admitted to hospital, one of the scariest and most stressful days of my entire life. On the plus side though it meant that I was finally getting the treatment I needed.

A few months ago the mental health nurses at the GP surgery suggested that I put in an official complaint with the practice manager regarding my early treatment, suggesting that it might bring me some sort of closure. 

This was something I considered doing after my first stay in hospital, but it became something that I was somewhat reluctant to do until that appointment with the nurse.

So now, on this most momentous of days, I'm sharing the letter I sent to the practice manager a few months ago. I have recieved replies to this complaint, and the matter, as far as they are concerned, is closed. If this post gets enough hits I may share those replies with you. All I will say for now is that I didn't get the sort of closure the nurse was suggesting.