Loss

I don’t even know where to start.  P was ill last week.  Normally he reacts very strongly to any attempt to help him by saying it’s “fussing”.  I was due to be out on Wednesday evening, but offered to cancel and go home, secure in the knowledge that he’d be appalled.  He did want me to go home although he was mostly in bed.  On Thursday he actually went to the GP – again, an almost impossible task to get him to go.  The GP sent him to hospital with suspected appendicitis.  We’ve been in hospital ever since.  I was up 41 hours before I made it home for some sleep.  I am not good at crying – I kind of choke it back, but when they admitted him to the Observation ward in Majors, I cried on my own, sat in a corridor, for 4 hours solidly, bursting a blood vessel in my eye.  They think he has cancer.  And in all likelihood has a burst appendix too.  They’ve pumped him full of antibiotics on an iv and he now feels fine.  But he has to have another scan and then we’re hoping he can come home, pending a more invasive test that should tell us one way or the other.  They clearly think he has it.

You read the stuff on the internet and it tells you briskly that half of people survive up to 10 years.  It’s just that I thought we had a lot longer than that.

I’ve barely eaten.  He was intermittently ‘nil by mouth’ and I would not have eaten or drank in front of him.  And I just didn’t feel like anything.  I’d eat nothing all day and then come home and eat a couple of pieces of toast and marmite. I lost a couple of lbs the first day.  And from MFP, I know I’m eating 600-800 calories a day.  But my hateful body has worked it out and is somehow managing to put on weight at that rate.  ¼ lb a day.  It’s inexplicable.  But I’m just too tired and too miserable to really care.