My Ectopic Pregnancy

Around one in 90 women in the UK experience an ectopic pregnancy, and most of those take place in the fallopian tubes.

Unfortunately, in the unlikely event that you do get pregnant with a coil, there is a raised risk of an ectopic pregnancy, which means the embryo cannot grow.

I had my second copper coil, otherwise known as an Intra Uterine Device, in 2018.

I had come back from an epic hike round the Pyrenees – a mountain range in the south of France. We had driven down there to explore the area and walk the five day “Pass’Aran” route.

When my period did not arrive, Google reassured me that this could be caused by low progesterone (hormone) levels, which could be caused by “extreme exercise”.

Then I had sore breasts, and once again Google said this was due to low progesterone levels, but as I was also feeling a bit more tired than usual, I checked with a pregnancy test.

Pregnant.

It didn’t say Not Pregnant. It must be a mistake.

1-2 weeks (it confusingly showed 2-3, but this meant weeks since conception which the leaflet explained was 1-2 weeks pregnant).

So it was early. I walked around swearing, head in hands. What was I going to do?

Did I want it? It was so inconvenient – we were in the process of buying a house, my boyfriend works away, we were going to New Zealand…now was not the time.

But I could not kill something that was both of us and I could not kill something I really wanted. Yes it wasn’t the right time but when was?

I didn’t have time to process, I had to get to work.

But I had to get dressed first and find the few bigger clothes I’d bought from another time I temporarily gained weight.

I wondered who to tell. Should I tell anyone but Jonny?

Maybe Jonny wouldn’t want it and then there’s the shame of abortion, so I wouldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone judging me.

I couldn’t keep it in and I needed emotional support, so I confided in a close friend and it really helped. Her cousin had had an ectopic pregnancy it turned out, and they had also found out at six weeks. She had her fallopian tube removed, as the embryo can damage it. At least we are born with two.

Before seeing the GP I wanted to talk to Jonny – then I could ask for an abortion as well as a scan if needed. He was shocked and froze but he wasn’t annoyed or upset as I expected. He said we should see what was going on with it first, before we made a decision. Ever the pragmatist.

“Is that the only one you did?”

“No, it’s the third.”

“Oh………Is there anything else that could make it test positive?”

“No Jonny!”

The next morning I contacted the GP first thing and filled in an online form. Almost immediately I was text with the first appointment of the day. I explained how I’d started spotting instead of a period and then how my breasts had become sore and that as of Thursday night, it looked like I was having a period.

The doctor examined me and referred me to the Gynae Accident and Emergency department at the local hospital for a scan (my second time as an emergency patient in a year). She said to make sure Jonny was with me and to tell Gynae if I had symptoms that would suggest even more of an emergency, like pain or heavy bleeding.

After an hour of waiting at reception, the nurse did a safeguarding and general information interview. “From your dates you’d be six weeks pregnant” she said.

She took me round for a urine and blood test and after waiting for ages, I had a scan.

I was excited as I held my boyfriend’s hand down the corridor, wondering how he’d feel when he saw our baby.

“Do you want me to show you the embryo if I can find it?” the nurse asked.

“Yes please” I replied. “Jonny, do you want to see it?”

“Yes” he said, looking both excited and confused.

I had read that an embryo of six weeks sent out an electrical signal that sounds like a heartbeat on a scan. It would be the size of a pomegranate seed and look like a tadpole.

I waited to hear the signal.

There was silence and a lot of prodding. It was uncomfortable but didn’t hurt.

“I’m very sorry to tell you this, but I can’t find a pregnancy in your uterus. I can confirm that it’s likely to be an ectopic pregnancy, which means it’s growing outside of your uterus.” I was devastated.

“It’s growing next to your ovary.”

“Next to the ovary?? outside the uterus?? not on the ovary then??”

“Do you want to see?”

“Yes please”.

The nurse rotated the screen and there was the dark space of my ovary and then a dark space next to it that looked like a comma stuck to my ovary. I couldn’t make out any details as it was grainy.

“I can’t be certain, but that may be the sac there.”

It was so strange to see, but it made it feel more real and I was glad for that, as it helped me to accept that this was really happening, and I needed to get my head around it.

Not only was I pregnant, but it could not continue. I knew logically that was good as it was the wrong time for us, but it didn’t make it feel any better emotionally.

How? why? why me?

I then waited two more hours for the blood test results.

Jonny came up with lunch. I felt sorry for the other pregnant ladies, who had also been waiting hours. One woman had an overweight partner who was snoring loudly and continuously falling off his chair. He hadn’t got her any lunch, but if he did there was a risk that he wouldn’t hear what the nurse had to say. I wondered why they didn’t have a ticket system, like they did with blood tests.

The doctor called me in, finally.

He explained about the pregnancy hormone they had measured for. I replied “oh yes, Human Immunoglobulin something…”

“yes, that one. It’s at 500. We need to wait and see what happens, because there is a still a chance that you are pregnant in the uterus and we can’t see it, as it is so early.”

“But I thought there was a mass?”

“Yes, but that could just be a cyst.”

“So we will have you back in in two days to see what has happened. If it doubles it is likely to be in your uterus. If it doesn’t then we can confirm an ectopic pregnancy.”

My treatment options were:

1. Expectant management – waiting to miscarry (and hoping I didn’t die from a ruptured fallopian tube).
2. Have an injection to stop the cells growing, and make them reabsorb into the body (genius).
3. Have my fallopian tube removed with keyhole (laparoscopic) surgery (also genius, but less chance of getting pregnant in future).

I felt fortunate that as of the 1980s, option 2 had also become available. The drug was previously only used in cancer treatment but has no bad side effects. Also, keyhole surgery has drastically reduced the time you need to spend in hospital – you can leave the same day instead of being on bed rest for weeks.

Google informed me that 500 HcG was the average reading for five weeks of a pregnancy in the uterus.

Dame Laura Kenny, the Olympic medal-winning cyclist, has recently spoken out about her ectopic pregnancy experience and this is why I’m blogging about it – it helped me to read about other women’s experiences.

I was relieved that hospital was done with. I had a missed a day of work and I was emotionally drained.

When I got home I lay on the sofa for a while, but life goes on, I had a night out with the netball girls.

Turns out you can’t enjoy alcohol pregnant – it just made me feel sick.

And so did a Dr Pepper can and a frangipani almond croissant. I didn’t like salad before, but now I want lots of dark leafy green salad and steak. Your body craves what it needs.

Best to act like it isn’t happening! I’m at the back putting.

The Traumatic Trauma Ward

Two cheerful young men in green scrubs came by in the early hours and introduced themselves as orthopaedic doctors.

I said “hi, can I have some morphine please?”

Codeine was not making any difference, there was an intense burning pain in the joint and if I moved my arm it was so strong I would cry out. Then there was the constant ache.

They exchanged glances. “Yes we can sort that. We have had another look at your X-rays and we think you probably don’t have an open fracture after all, so your operation can’t be prioritised. We might send you home for a week or two and bring you back in for the operation.”

I thought about trying to manage the agony with codeine.

“I want to stay in hospital until the operation.”

The medics acknowledged this and left.

I needed the toilet but I was on my own. I wasn’t prepared to pee myself and I couldn’t reach the buzzer.

Fortunately two support workers down the corridor heard me scream from the shooting pain of my muscles pulling my fracture apart, and one had to help me off the toilet.

After that I finally got morphine, but then a high-pitched voice jarred me awake. It was coming down the corridor accompanied by the squeak of wheels.

Lily was an advocate of LGBTQ rights, she said, and she wanted to be a counsellor for the LGBTQ community because one had really helped her.

She had been using a pedestrian crossing because the traffic lights had changed to red. A taxi had sped through and over her, breaking her back and legs. The driver had got witnesses to agree with his side of the story, that the lights were actually on green.

When she was not telling everyone about it, she was moaning in agony.

I was kept nil by mouth the next day, so I missed breakfast and lunch.

In the morning I waved goodbye to the smiley staff who had helped me, as I was wheeled out of the Theatre Recovery Unit and onto the orthopaedic ward. I hoped it would be quieter. It wasn’t.

The orthopaedic ward was larger and open plan, with a blocked dirty toilet and one shower serving 12 patients. The spare toilet and shower were both broken. Unlike the Theatre Recovery ward, it was usually fully occupied and half staffed.

My four day neon hell of noise and pain had begun.

It was Sunday morning and a woman was being gently and firmly reassured by a nun.

Next to her was 88 year old Brenda, who was visited by her son and the two laughed together. She was outspoken and her bright eyes took everything in. She beckoned me over and we had some good chats. She had survived breast cancer and then she had had a fall. She said she would probably die soon. “You seem pretty healthy, I don’t think so” I said. “Oh love” she smiled, “I’m not afraid of death, I know I don’t have long left, that’s just how it is. My husband passed eight years ago so I don’t mind, I’m ready. I’ve already survived breast cancer” she said proudly.

The table was put on the side of my broken elbow, so I could not reach anything and no staff were available. They had even put the call bell out of reach. I lay there looking at the clock, counting the hours until my boyfriend would break the monotony.

Finally, my first meal of the day was served, a flavoursome beef curry. My boyfriend brought home-made banana cake for dessert and it was so comforting to see him.

He brought in my medication which I had not had for two days. A nurse had not arranged it as she promised, when she refused to let him bring it in onto the Theatre ward.

Night fell and so did the staffing levels. Once again I was without morphine for hours and I couldn’t help making a noise about it, it was the only way of processing the mental stress of being in constant agony and helpless.

I apologised to my fellow inmates as I groaned through the hours, waiting for two nurses to be able to sign off the only thing that would let me sleep.

I played a pain management meditation and calmed down as I watched the clouds lighten. Pain was part of life, it was temporary and it wasn’t always a bad thing. I shouldn’t resist it or be worried about it.

A bed pan was brought but I somehow wet myself and an exhausted zombie nurse had to change the bed. She said how she was on her fourth or fifth 12 hour night shift.

The closest patients both had dementia, one lovely lady was unsettled by my moaning and repeatedly asked if I was ok. The woman opposite repeatedly asked for help even though she didn’t need it. Flustered staff checked and eventually she was ignored. This seemed to increase her harassment of them.

When I finally got morphine I was still in too much pain to sleep, so I got the nurse to get the doctor. Finally, a girl in her 20s sympathetically doubled the dose so I could finally drift off. As the dosage increase hit my system I suddenly vomited, and then spilt some on myself putting the bowl on the table. I had to sleep in it as no one was available to change the bed again.

Maybe I would get surgery tomorrow…

A Sharp Brake

Bluebells illuminated the forest floor, birdsong reverberated, bright green leaves curled round us and treecreeper birds hopped up to the heavens as we cycled through the woods. Abdominal cramps slowed my progress up a disused side road leading up to the main road.

Years of temperature changes and heavy rains had carved a ditch up one side. The concrete underbelly had been exposed, jagged rocks protruding like blunted shark’s teeth.

Having made it to the top I admitted defeat. “Go on, have a nice ride” I said, “I can’t manage it”. My boyfriend protested, but accepted it and I rolled back downhill.

I should get off and walk, I thought, the road was so uneven. But my suspension would take it.

Towards the bottom, I was speeding towards the ditch, so I gently squeezed the brakes and skidded. Abruptly, like the wheels, time accelerated. Instinctively I braked too hard as I slid, catapulting myself over the handlebars. I was aware of flying and saw that my arm was held out at 90 degrees, protecting my head. I shut my eyes and braced myself for impact.

I was rolling onto my left elbow.

An overwhelming burning sensation had doubled me over. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from, my brain would not compute.

I wondered when someone would find me. I tried to get up but my body would not allow it. Putting weight on my cut right elbow made me scream, so I let my forehead support my weight so I could see whether anyone was coming down. At least it wasn’t my writing hand.

I decided to keep screaming, it was comforting to think that somehow my boyfriend may hear me. It also helped to slow my breathing down. My fitness tracker watch somehow had not been smashed and my pulse shot from 80 to 130 beats per minute, as my body trembled in shock, my temperature dropping.

After the second bout of screaming, my boyfriend blurred into view, jumping off with the bike still moving, wide-eyed.

Seeing my position and pain, he said “we need to call an ambulance.” My rational brain woke up. “My phone is in my bag” I croaked, struggling to speak loudly.

Our first Good Samaritan stopped, a tall, middle-aged man wearing glasses. My boyfriend did not have his phone and had not processed what I had said. “Does he have What Three Words” I asked. Incredibly, the stranger had the GPS application.

My boyfriend put me on the speakerphone and in between shrieks I answered. I was warned that an ambulance could take up to three hours.

They apologised, that was the non-urgent wait time as my life wasn’t immediately at risk. I wondered whether I would eventually pass out in agony.

My boyfriend jumped back on his bike to get the car.

Then Adam, my second knight in shining armour, rode to the rescue. He whipped out a full first aid kit, keeping me warm with a silver blanket and a thermal coat from his backpack.

“Yep, that looks broken” he said, and helped me to shuffle off the road on my bottom so I could rest against the wall.

With his encouragement I dared to extend my elbow slightly so it was supported on my helmet. The burning, pulsating sensation was increasing and I was glad that this kind man was keeping me company.

Distracting me, he told me how he had been a mountain bike guide for decades. He loved the outdoors. If I had not braked as hard I would have been OK, you have to let yourself skid.

My boyfriend arrived about 15 minutes later and we stashed my bike in a cottage driveway.

Every bump and corner caused strong shooting pains. The full waiting room of patients stared in horror as I staggered into Accident and Emergency like a zombie from Shaun of the Dead, my bruised and swollen elbow dangling out.

Administrators put me to the top of the queue and within minutes I was being checked over by a friendly triage doctor.

As she helped me into a hospital gown, I asked “it’s just a standard break isn’t it?”

“I think that’s optimistic.”

“They can just put a pot on it and send me home can’t they?”

“Again, I think that’s optimistic” she smiled.

“Go on, what do you think it is?”

She winced at my bulbous hinge joint. “I’d say it’s an open fracture, I don’t think you’ll be going home tonight.”

“Oh.”

We waited about an uncomfortable hour for assessment. I could not bend my elbow enough to sit down, so I was glad my boyfriend was there for me to lean on and he put a comforting arm round me. The patients sat in silence, until a man walked in, cheerfully telling someone on his mobile phone how he had sliced the top of his thumb off whilst preparing dinner.

An intact elbow for comparison.

The X-ray was interesting, it still looked like an elbow, until the medic pointed to where the olecranon, the funny bone, had slipped, the internal injury and the air that had infiltrated the joint.

A nurse tried to lift the elbow to put a pillow under it and ran off after I screamed, sending medics running to my aid. “Open fracture” I explained, they nodded and left.

WARNING: GORY WOUND

Then it was time for a temporary cast. I would not lie down as it increased the pain, so they made an exception for me and started it with me standing, then gave me gas and air as they urged me to get on the bed. I experienced a powerful bout of nausea followed by nearly blacking out. “It worked” the nurse said “or that would’ve really hurt.”

There was a panel of medics in scrubs looking at computer screens in front of me like traffic control.

Woozily, I slowly hauled myself up and asked a nurse where the toilet was. “I’ll show you when I’ve finished this”, she replied. Then she conferred with another nurse and I blearily followed that woman past resus until she sat down at another A and E ward.

“Sorry, I thought you were showing me where the toilet was”.

“Er, no” she responded, completely bewildered, “you’re best off going back”. After she pointed me there I got lost again, walking into “resus”, past people gasping for breath, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. This was more intense than my holding area. It was a relief when I bumped into the cast lady.

“What are you doing here?” she asked kindly, and showed me to the toilet.

It took over three hours to get a bed. The Theatre Recovery Unit was a long ward with many rooms. Mine was only half full. The nurse, Joy, was either elsewhere, chatting about her recent holiday with support worker Gloria, or telling demented Doris to go back to bed. Doris would then get up again, preferring to twirl a chair at the nurse station.

I smiled at a bespectacled middle-aged lady opposite and she just stared gloomily back and asked Joy “can I go home tomorrow?”.

After being kept “nil by mouth” pending the “highly unlikely” possibility of surgery, I was finally given a ham sandwich for dinner at 10.30pm, when I begged for it. Maybe I would get my elbow fixed the following day…

My First Pandemic

scientificanimations.com

If you want a break from continuous Covid-19, I have an article coming soon about my Philippines adventures. The photos and memories are an escape from the chaos.

The threat emerged in China. It was awful but far away.

“Don’t go” my aunt begged. But there were few cases in the Philippines. I was going via Singapore. People had spread it at their airport and a London airport shortly before I arrived back, but it was not a common event.

Someone on the plane has a fever.

A poster at a bus stop, beside a nurse who was coughing profusely.

We were hovering over Heathrow when cabin crew marched quickly up the plane, one wheeling a suitcase. There was a flurry of activity up the aisles and a curtain was yanked shut.

“Just to let you know, someone on the plane has a fever” announced the captain. There was stifled anxiety and a father was explaining the situation to his child.

We landed and a health visitor distributed forms. Unlike the cabin crew, reassuringly, he was not wearing a mask, just gloves. Waiting outside the plane a medical professional stood wide-eyed, wearing a hazmat outfit with a clear visor covering her face.

Days passed and I heard nothing, so I forgot about the pesky plague.

Then it came to Italy and coronavirus contaminated my newsfeed.

I’ve got a temperature.

My boyfriend had gone skiing in the North Italian Alps in February and there was a good offer for the Austrian mountains, in Tirol.

“Do you need another ski holiday?”

“It’s not for long” he replied.

I said goodbye on the 1st of March.

“I’ve got a temperature so I’ve come back from work early” the text read, on Wednesday 11th.

He phoned NHS111.

“You haven’t been to an affected area so you don’t need a test” they responded. No mention of infection control.

The first UK nationals returning with the virus had been on holiday to Europe. A friend who had dared to enjoy the Sagrada Familia and Sangria in Barcelona was now cuddling her cat in bed.

We never get ill. Not like this.

Worried, I text my boyfriend. “What are your symptoms?”

“Headache, aches, sore throat, cough and my chest feels tight”.

“You must isolate.”

“I’ll go back to work when I’m feeling better.”

Day 3:

“How are you?”

“Temp going up and down now. Woke up last night with the heat, had some really weird dreams. It’s strange how a fever affects you.”

On Saturday 14th March the panic started.

It was day 4 of my boyfriend’s fever but it was finally dropping. I wanted to be sure.

I desperately visited every shop in a five mile radius.

Boots nearby? sold out.

Boots in town? sold out.

Superdrug? sold out.

Argos? sold out.

John Lewis? didn’t sell them.

Online? sold out all over England.

This could have put his life in danger. Why were they so selfish? Why didn’t they have thermometers? Why didn’t we have thermometers?

Because we never get ill. Not like this.

The media started announcing a daily coronavirus count. There would be bulk-buying. But to my surprise it was business as usual in the pharmacy that morning. There was still a sense of calm. Everything was in stock apart from most of the paracetamol. I bought two lots of products to ease flu. One for me, one for my boyfriend.

A man in the queue turned and looked at my basket, whispered to his wife and walked to the side to wait for his prescription, staring at me nervously as I purchased the items.

“Is this just for you?” the retailer asked.

“No, it’s for someone else as well” I said smiling, as the shop went silent and people gawped.

I was in Waitrose looking for snacks. The bread shelf was empty. The flour shelf (to make bread) was nearly empty. The pasta shelf? empty. The soap shelf? empty. The medicine shelf? empty. The Vitamin C shelf? empty. The toilet roll shelf? empty. Why? “Well at least there’s still beer” someone joked.

A nurse was crying in her car after trying to get food. She has now come down with it too, possibly. My brother came back from an A and E shift in Wales to find his supermarket almost empty. My sister found the same in London.

I was going to see a friend that night when she messaged. “Sorry, I have discussed it and we don’t think it’s a good idea”, explaining that her boyfriend had asthma and sending a link to government advice on social distancing. I don’t know when I can visit her again.

Some people have had to make the heartbreaking decision not to see grandparents,parents, partners or even their own children.

Only £94 sick pay.

The Prime Minister’s announcement came on Sunday 15th. All those with symptoms were to isolate for seven days. My boyfriend now needed to stay home for another four days.

“Great, that’s only £94 sick pay.”

“Think of the vulnerable and older people you’ll be protecting.”

I went swimming with a friend and we went in the steam room, with no steam. I had not wanted to go in but there was only one other person.

My friend is a cancer survivor and had been told she was “medium” risk. She has now received a letter telling her she was one of the 1.5 million English nationals that could end up in hospital from the virus. She had been out on the town until midnight, should she worry about it? she asked. No, I replied. Better to go out now than at the peak of the epidemic in mid-April or May. I sent her a flowers and wine delivery with some of the last Merlot left in the city. Yesterday I won the last sour cream in my neighbourhood and last week I bought the last two packets of chicken in the supermarket. Yet I was frustrated one day when I forgot to buy the vegetables for dinner and couldn’t make another trip for a single cabbage.

Her colleagues got coronavirus taking blood.

I later read that the virus was easily spread in Chinese gyms. But again the source was not revealed, so could not be verified. Fake news and “medical” advice began to infect social media, including gargling with salt water for “protection” and holding your breath for ten seconds meant you had “virus-free” lungs. You could “wash the virus away from your lungs” by drinking tea and “kill the virus” by sunbathing.

I informed my friend that the “e-mail circulated in a hospital” was  actually government guidelines with a smattering of lunacy.

The only way to avoid contagion is to keep your distance and wash your hands.

But the public think that does not apply if you are outdoors, so now, as of Monday 23rd we are all on lockdown and gatherings of more than two people are banned. Countryside car parks are shut and the roads are almost empty, perfect for cycling. Meanwhile, our heroic key workers are keeping the country going, including my siblings. My sister worked on the “front line” for two weeks without adequate Personal Protective Equipment and four staff at her hospital tragically died. Her colleague got coronavirus taking blood with only gloves on, and survived.

My brother got infected from his girlfriend who worked on a coronavirus ward. Luckily they got off with a cough and fatigue.

From day 4 onwards my boyfriend started to get better.  His sore throat eased and he no longer had a temperature.

A week later, his only irritation was an inflamed nose and a reduced sense of smell. His housemates did not get infected as he kept his distance, wiping kitchen and bathroom surfaces after touching them.

The Guardian has recently reported that around 70% of infectious people have few or no symptoms. With that figure it is easy to understand why numbers are increasing rapidly. This is from a reputable source, a microbiology professor.

Help others more and read the news less.

Now, every time I get home I wash my hands and wipe down anything I have touched before that. I have even started spraying my shopping in case it has been touched by someone who has coughed coronavirus onto their hands. It is so unlikely, but why take that chance.

People suffering from anxiety have told me that the worry around them has made theirs worse.

The most effective way I have found of dealing with the apocalypse is to help others and to read the news less.

One useful story referred to Mutual Aid groups mobilising volunteers on social media. I joined one and bought some items for a local family.

Do you think she’ll get worse?

A family of four was isolating due to their daughter having a cough. She would give me money. I gave her my details for an online transfer instead. The money could have the virus on it. “I will stand three steps away” I replied.

There was the patter of little feet running to the door. A toddler peered up at me with bright eyes.

“She doesn’t seem to have a temperature” I remarked.

“No, she just has a cough” her mother replied.

“She probably doesn’t have it then” I said, hoping to reassure her.

“But children aren’t as badly affected are they.”

“Well no, that’s true.”

“Do you think she’ll get worse?” she asked.

“No, if she’s only got a cough she should be ok, and like you say, children aren’t as badly affected.”

“Will I get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if I get it? Will I get it worse?”

“Well have you got a good immune system?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any underlying health conditions?”

“No.”

“You should be fine then.”

She thanked me and I left, assuring her that I’d message her if I needed anything. I delivered more bread and milk a few days later.

A board read “GO HOME, COUNTRYSIDE OUT OF BOUNDS.”

Last weekend we went on a walk with my boyfriend’s mother. As we expect that he is immune, we were not worried about him spreading it. He will not be able to see them now until the non-essential travel ban is lifted. Roadblocks have begun to spring up on local motorways.

A fast-tracked emergency bill is ensuring that new infection control laws can be enforced.

The beautiful Pigeon Tower above Upper Rivington Reservoir in Lancashire. Copyright literarylydi

I tried to keep my distance from in case I was asymptomatic (infectious but with no symptoms). We also tried to create some distance with groups walking past. It was only a problem if they coughed or sneezed the virus, but better safe than sorry. Irritatingly we ended up sandwiched in between groups of people and sharing narrow paths with them.

No one was willing to keep their distance. We wiped our hands before eating and at the car before we went home, as we had been touching gates.

That land is now shut.

On the way home in the Peak District, we saw a board that read

“GO HOME, COUNTRYSIDE OUT OF BOUNDS.”

The streets were nearly empty and older people were all inside, isolating for 3 months.

At least we don’t live in fear of nuclear attack.

But there were people sitting in parks, walking and cycling. I doubt we will see icecream vans for a long time, maybe not even in the warmer months.

I have been watching “Summer of Rockets” on the BBC recently and it has reminded me that things could be worse. At least we don’t live in fear of nuclear attack.

Audio poems are soothing, those who are creative can find comfort in the arts. Those who are practical are doing more D.I.Y, the drilling disturbing my work. But at least I could cook myself lunch and spend the rest of the break shooting hoops.

There are entertaining videos and memes doing the rounds. An unemployed sports commentator has done commentary for everyday events, such as the “South East halloumi-buying champions” frequenting Waitrose.

There was a video of the actor Antony Hopkins playing the piano with his cat on his lap.

Classic FM/Instagram / @AnthonyHopkins

I have also found it helpful to try not talking about it, to absorb yourself in escapist programmes and do what you can, instead of fretting about what you can’t.

No, we can’t go to schools, universities, gyms, pubs, clubs, cafes, clothes shops or restaurants (as of Saturday). We might not be able to see our family, friends or colleagues in person, maybe even our children.

But we can see them online, as long as the Internet withstands the increased demand.

We can do so many things in our homes or individually to entertain ourselves and exercise, so we must enjoy that.

Stay three steps away from others, don’t touch your eyes, nose or mouth and wash your hands when you get home.

The poem If by Rudyard Kipling is good to keep in mind: “if you can keep your head, when all about you. Are losing theirs[…]you’ll be a Man, my son”.

My favourite is Warning, by Jenny Joseph.

As they said in another war: “Keep calm and carry on.”

Thoughts on Chronic Illness

Recently a friend told me that she might have cancer.

Two lumps had appeared, one small, one big. The doctor immediately sent her for a biopsy. The cells were abnormal and treatment is needed.

The doctor was worried because she used to be a heavy smoker and overweight, two known risk factors.

She said the worse part was the torment of not knowing.

Once she has a diagnosis, she can plan, but for now she has to wait, thoughts churning around about the future.

We discussed how she could manage it and even speculated as to what the result might be. I tried to reassure her, but there isn’t much I can say or do, other than telling her that I will be there for her, no matter what. She was experiencing an emotional storm of frustration, anger, sorrow and fear. She is a strong woman both mentally and physically, but nothing can prepare you for the shock of being told you have a long-term illness.

My friend is courageously dealing with an uncertain future. She said that her illness had helped her gain more focus and she will now attack her bucket list with a renewed vigour.

In times of difficulty we need the courage to draw on our inner resources and access support networks. We may need to evaluate our perspective. In Buddhist philosophy, adversity is seen as the best teacher, a chance to learn from experience and emerge a stronger, wiser person.

So what have I learnt from the experience of my friends?

Firstly, the importance of living in the moment.

No one has a crystal ball. If we speculate about the future we only create fear and worry. This destabilises us and prevents us from being fully present to support friends in need. Everything is easier if we take a moment, slow down and just float on the river of life, wherever it takes us. Not accepting our reality is like trying to swim against the current; it wastes our energy and is futile.

Secondly, I need to be grateful.

We spend so much time focussing on what we do not have. We are constantly unhappy with the present and want more. We forget just how lucky we are. There is so much suffering in the world and, whilst we all experience peaks and troughs, somehow we escape the worst of it.

I would like you to take a moment to be grateful.

Be thankful for all the people in your life who guide and support you, your cheerleaders. Be thankful that you have mental and/or physical good health. But most of all, be thankful for the love and kindness of family and friends. Against all odds, love conquers all.

 

Top 10 tips – blood donation

I wish I’d known a few things to make my first donation easier. Here’s what I learnt or found out:

1. Wear layers if it’s cold outside but make sure you’re wearing something less warm to donate in. My friend was wearing a t-shirt and jeans and was fine. I was in a wool dress and nearly fainted.

2. Do drink 500ml of water before you donate – this helps avoid fainting too.  

3. Take gloves/hand warmers –  your hands might get cold with the drop in blood pressure especially if you have Raynauds.

4. Eat iron-rich foods before and afterwards – black pudding is the best for raising haemoglobin levels but if you can’t stomach this then spinach, nuts (in large quantities) and red meat are all great. Women should also avoid donating around their periods as iron levels will be lower then. If you have heavy periods you may not pass the haemoglobin (iron levels in blood) test before donation.

Fe is the chemical symbol for Iron

5. Don’t try and get up too fast afterwards. Take your time. Ensure you leave at least an hour and a half for the whole process. As my body was not used to it I had to rest for a while afterwards.

6. Don’t do any strenuous exercise for the next two days. I rested as I felt a bit weak, although I was fine to go shopping a couple of hours later (window shopping so I didn’t have to carry anything).

This is photo is taken by an incredible teenage blogger who thought she might not be able to donate, having only one kidney. She documents the process with photos.
http://mylungsmylife.wordpress.com/2013/09/04/my-first-blood-donation-session/ 

7. Try to avoid using your donor arm as much as possible for about 24 hours, and leave the pressure pad and bandage/plaster on until then too. This will minimise bruising. I didn’t have any because of this and I also avoided using that arm for two days.

8. Go with someone, preferably someone who has been before. This helped as they could tell me what to expect and support me. Maybe they’ll warm your hands and take that picture too! If you tell the staff you have a needle phobia they can give you extra support.

9. You don’t need a local anaesthetic- it isn’t painful. It’s just like having a small quick injection and then you don’t feel a thing.

10. If you feel ill after donation, ensure you contact the number you are given so that they know your donation may not be safe. Of course it goes without saying that you should be honest when answering questions before.

See this link: http://www.blood.co.uk/index.aspx for more information on blood donation in England.

My First Blood Donation

Why don’t you start the year by saving lives regularly? Not just those of others but perhaps even your own.

January is the most popular month for donations but continuing to give blood is important.

Not only does blood improve the health of the patient, it also helps the donor – a study from Finland indicated that those aged 43 to 61 had an 88% reduced risk of heart attacks donating six months than those who didn’t. What’s more, it burns hundreds of calories.

As I previously struggled with a needle phobia I was quite anxious about my appointment. I usually saw stars and had clammy hands, so I wasn’t going alone. This is one of the biggest barriers to donation – with 58% of recipients saying this was a factor in my questionnaire.

My friend, who donates for the Interval Study every eight weeks, told me he was going and said I was welcome to join him. I’d had a few in the pub and said alright then, I’d give it a go.

In 2012 Sir Bruce Keogh, NHS medical director, talked of the need to “reduce blood use in hospitals” so that blood demand could be met in the future. We are an essential part in ensuring that people receive the life-saving treatment they need.

The Interval Study is research being carried out to see whether people can donate sooner than is currently allowed in England. In Europe people can already donate at 8 weeks. I was previously working on the phone line booking people in for these appointments. Currently 7,500 more donors are needed to participate. Here women can donate every 12 weeks if you are male and every 16 weeks if you are female. This is because women do not have the same levels of stored iron as men. From experience working on the Interval Study booking line I found that the majority of donors were retired and  research shows there has been a drop in young people donating. I think this is due to time – we lead increasingly busy lives and I am surprised that our city’s main blood centre is not open on weekends or very late in the evenings. I think the other main factor to donating is also convenience and with the number of blood vans vastly diminished many people don’t have the opportunity or time to make a special trip.

An Australian statistic on their blood service website.

Only 5% of eligible England donate, although almost all of my friends do. British hospitals use an average of 7,000 units of blood a day. I asked everyone I knew and the only reason people didn’t  were for medical reasons, except one gay friend – I noticed on the questionnaire that same sex intercourse in a period of less than 12 months was one of the “red” yes questions where they would enquire further. He told me he doesn’t mind at all as he is also quite squeamish. In the U.S donation is banned entirely for homosexuals but there is much protest and perhaps this will change in the near future, especially as researchers have pointed out that this standing is scientifically unsound.

When I called I was surprised to find that there weren’t any appointments available for a month. There had clearly been a surge in goodwill over the festive period. But I may be able to get an appointment on the day. So I rang up, expecting it to be full. I was told to book online.

This was quick and easy. I called again, half hoping it would be full now, so I’d have a valid excuse. No there was one slot free, just at the time my friend was going. Must be fate.

I grudgingly booked. Maybe something else would disqualify me. I couldn’t believe I was going through with it. I saw people lying serenely on the donor chairs but I still wanted to run a mile. Every inch of me wanted to escape but I wasn’t going to let fear win. I just wouldn’t look at the needle, it would be fine, I told myself.

I was assigned a motherly lady in a navy uniform. She was one as well, complaining about her daughter calling throughout her assessment.

Did I have this? Did I have that? Where had I been in Turkey and when and for how long? Not many questions really, she just checked the main ones and asked for a little more detail in some areas. The interview was in a closed room with a window to the donor area. I didn’t really want to see what was going to happen to me next. But maybe that helped me to face it better. She had two small bottles filled with florescent blue and green liquid. She pricked my finger with a needle, but I didn’t see the needle as it was hidden in white plastic tubing. I explained that I was trying to confront a phobia of them so she explained everything she was doing with a smile and a calming manner. She said that if my haemoglobin was at an acceptable level, my blood from the pin prick would sink. I willed it not too. It did, leaving a little red vapour trail through the green liquid.

Australian statistics again – I will try to get a picture for the English ones, which are quite similar. Thank you to blonde ambition at http://blondeambition.com.au/2012/11/19/today-i-saved-three-lives/ for this.

I had assumed local anaesthetic was given as standard and asked about that.

“Oh no”, she said,

“we only give a local if you ask for it. Would you like to request a local? It’s not problem”

I’d passed the 10 minute chat now. I didn’t want to be the only one not tough enough to do it without anaesthetic. The boys would almost certainly not ask for that. I asked her how much it would hurt “well it depends how sensitive you are” she said. That didn’t really help. I panicked but then I saw my friend Tom in one of the chairs. It was too late to run out. I’d lose face with my boyfriend too, who had come for moral support. There were no appointments but they managed to squeeze him in too.

Image URL copied from sptimes.com – cancer patient receiving blood donation

I deep breathed to prepare myself for the worst and the lady laughed. “Try to remember to do the exercises” she said and handed me a card detailing slowly clenching and unclenching the buttocks and crossing and uncrossing my legs as good ways of ensuring you didn’t faint at the end of the donation.

“It’s not that bad” she said. I wondered how much they’d take and how I’d feel afterwards. Had I drunk enough water? Would I remember to do the exercises? Maybe I should have eaten healthier, maybe my blood wasn’t healthy enough? Would it hurt all the way through? Would I feel the blood being sucked out of my veins by the vampire machine?

My friend had already finished. Well at least it wouldn’t take long.

I got quite comfy in the ergonomic chair and the lady adjusted it until I was lying back comfortably. I looked away as she rubbed my arm briskly and I tensed as I felt a sharp prick and small stab of pain in my arm for a matter of seconds and that was it. I couldn’t feel the blood leaving my body. When I looked back down there was a bit of blue plastic tubing around the needle edge so all I could see was a little bit of the metal going in before a long bit of tubing. There was just the one needle. All the same, I have Raynauds so my hands went cold with the anxiety. I told a kind technician and she held my hand in her warm ones. That made the experience more relaxing.

I was still feeling a little on edge and was grimacing at my friend taking pictures until I saw my boyfriend appear on the chair opposite. Seeing him more nervous than me (and it was his ninth time) made me relax and was quite amusing. He drew breath sharply when it went in and then twitched about, smiling but looking a bit frenetic. Looking at me didn’t seem to calm him down either. He explained later that he was just trying to keep his blood pressure up.

I followed the tubing down to the blood bag. It was underneath a little table. I was fascinated by watching the blood run into the bag. It was so dark, and looked quite thick as it ran slowly and steadily into it. The contraption holding the bag was interesting – it was moving it about up, swinging slightly from left to right, so it looked like it was moving with the blood going into it. There were one or two technicians around and I asked them why it was moving. It was apparently a bag that weighed the donation and cut off when the bag had the required mass. I crossed and uncrossed my legs once and did the buttock exercise once. After about 15 minutes the machine beeped we were done. My boyfriend was done just before me – apparently guys give blood faster due to their physical structure.

After it they put a plaster on and then a small cotton wad for pressure and some medical tape. Two days later my boyfriend went for a 10k run (they recommend rest for 48 hours) and said although he went a little slower it was fine. They brought me upright gradually and asked me how I was. I felt a bit light-headed so I told them. They immediately put the chair back so I was lying with my feet in the air. I was kept like this for about five minutes until they lowered me and asked me if I was OK repeatedly until I was allowed to sit at the treat table (all the biscuits, chocolate and orange juice you want).

I was so triumphant I said “I wanna do platelet donation!“. There is even greater need for platelet donors as these only have a shelf life of seven days and like blood donors, there are not enough. In 2012 they made up a mere 0.03% of the English population. But the technician looked at my veins and said sympathetically “no…I think you should stick to whole donations love”.

I didn’t suffer any bruising as I avoided using my donor arm for a day or so and kept the pressure wad on for a full day. All I could see was a milimetre red dot. I had joined the 12% of donors who were doing it for the first time.

I don’t intend to stop going, although sadly statistics indicate that of those who have donated, 72% haven’t done so for two years or more. Today I went in to find out what blood type I was. You can find out after two days and it appears online. I wanted to find out my haemoglobin level was as well, but apparently they don’t take statistics for that. I had to present photo ID and then I was told I was O positive. This was a bit of a disappointment to me as O positive is the most common blood type (37% of us are this) and I could see from the National Blood Service website stats that their stocks of that were plentiful. It was the rare types they really needed, AB and suchlike. They told me O negative was really useful, as anyone (except someone who is O positive) can receive O negative blood. But the plus side of being O positive is that anyone who is O positive or even just “Rhesus positive” can receive my blood, and that’s a massive 83% of people. I got a little key-ring with it on which will surely help if I have an accident.

Of course, some people will not be eligible to give blood but if you can I think you should. Around 1 in 3 of us will need it in our lifetime. As my medic student sister said “we all expect to receive blood if we needed it, and I think if we expect it we should give it as well.”

Have a Heart

Heart disease is the UK’s biggest killer resulting in around 82 000 deaths a year.

A massive 2.7 million live with it here. It doesn’t just affect those who have diabetes, high blood pressure, who smoke or are overweight. It can be genetic or it can be caused by fatty deposits building up in our arteries as we get older. It could affect you at some point in your life.

There are some great tips for maintaining cardiac health here.

I used to care for an elderly lady who had a pacemaker, so the British Heart Foundation is an important cause for me. Thinking of her is what will drive me in my 40 mile charity bicycle ride on 27 October this year, which I will be doing with my group. Of course I practice what I preach and have given money and I will also donate my organs in the event of my death, so that someone else may live a life as full as the one I often take for granted.

Have a heart and please donate to our bike ride JustGiving page today. You can give in a variety of currencies through a secure process. It doesn’t have to be much but it would be much appreciated not just by me but by the people whose lives the research/treatment will save or improve.

Thank you.

The Gift of Giving

In the break between posting I have accepted two jobs which I heard about through networking, constantly posting the woes of unemployment on Facebook. My Facebook friends probably offered me jobs they knew about just to free up their newsfeed! I currently work in the Blood Service. I was surprised at the amount of people calling in to book appointments.

Ironically I have a needle phobia, like a third of young people surveyed by the NHS Blood and Transplant Service and so I have not donated. I am looking for someone to go with me and hold my hand, as last time I had a blood test I nearly fainted. Phobias are strange, you know it’s irrational, and yet when you’re in that situation the object of fear seems magnified and the irrational thoughts seem all too real. Like arachnophobia, where the spider seems bigger in your mind’s eye and you imagine it crawling on you, when that is the last thing it would do.

Anyway, back to beneficence. Some people book time off work, some travel by train and one man even booked in early on the morning of his birthday. Around the office there was a photo of a little girl and her drawing of herself when she had leukaemia. The note below said she had required 20 blood donations to recover. I want to give to help cases such as this and I am also curious to see what my blood group is.  There is a shortage of regular blood donors with only 4% of eligible donors giving blood. Just 14% of those who donate regularly are aged below 30 and there has been a 20% drop in donations from 17-24 year olds in the past 10 years. It was explained that in my parents’ generation it was seen as a duty to donate and indeed most of the donors I hear from are around 50 or 60. I think donations would increase from my generation if some places opened in the evenings and on Saturdays, as some already do.

A study is being conducted to see if people can give blood more regularly – perhaps a month sooner than they would normally be allowed to. This is already the case in some other countries and donors are monitored at each attendance. If I can face my fear and give blood maybe I will join it. You can ask about it and sign up until June if you attend a static centre as the study does not run from mobile vans and you must be 18 or over.

Have you given blood? What was it like?