Carneddau Interlude

It’s a day of thirds - a beautiful interlude sandwiched between two periods where I feel so low. 

Generally, I’m coping during the day, but at night, increasing pain and/or discomfort stop me sleeping despite the over-the-counter painkillers I’m taking, so by the morning I’m so tired and weepy. Still, I’m thinking there will be a hospital appointment on Wednesday when they’ll remove the catheter and - hopefully - I’ll feel better. 

As usual, G comes to my rescue and we go off on one of our short excursions in the car. I have a yearning to go to Sychnant; we’ve not been there yet this year, and it’s a relatively short and level walk from the car park to the lake. And secretly - I don’t mention it in case I jinx my chances - I’m really hoping to see some of my beloved Carneddau ponies. 

I’ve only walked a short way along the path and there they are - a little group of three grazing in the bracken, visible only by their long lush manes that rise above. I feel so privileged - it’s as if they’re waiting for me. G has walked on, but this is all I want, and as they move onto the grassy areas, I just sit down and happily photograph them for some time. It really lifts my spirits. 

Back home, I decide it’s time to phone the hospital. I’ve had no letter of appointment, so - lacking any confidence in YGC - I attempt to get though to somebody who can help. It’s a Sisyphean task. I’m told to contact the ‘ward’ from where I was discharged, but when I finally get through, they have no record of me. They find me when I provide my hospital number, but even then, my notes clearly say nothing. I’m then passed on to the urology consultant’s secretary who also knows nothing, but recognising the distressed frustrations of the caller, promises she’ll go to find someone who may be able to help. I’m not holding my breath, but in fairness she does phone back. Apparently I’m on the waiting list for a cystoscopy, at which time they’ll remove the catheter - not at all what I was previously told. When will that be, I ask.  Possibly the end of May, she tells me. I’m horrified. There’s the practicality of only having been given two weeks worth of bags, but there’s also my real worry about how much this is exacerbating my condition, however much it has relieved the issues of the UTI.  Shouldn’t I have more antibiotics, I ask. She doesn’t know. At least she contacts an urology nurse who phones me back promising to post the necessary additional bags.

I am so tired of all this. And what happens to those who don’t - or cannot - chase things up? I’ve yet to write my letters of complaint, but the list of issues grows just as my confidence of any decent medical care diminishes. 

Still, there is the beauty of the mountains and their special inhabitants - the ponies. Please indulge me the rather excessive Carneddau set today; these gorgeous creatures make me very happy, but as always, I find it hard the choose my favourite for my main. (Oh, and apologies for all the self-pitying complaints!)