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Showing posts from January, 2012

My big, flat fistula shedding

I can't quite believe it: my arm is flat. At least it will be once the swelling goes down and it no longer resembles a balloon animal. After an abortive attempt in the week before Christmas, my fistula was finally plaicated last Wednesday, a graft (or small piece of plastic tubing, for those of you inexplicably not conversant in renal terminology) was inserted and the giant unsightly lump was lopped off. My potassium, which had thwarted my previous sortie, was running high yet again, but my surgeon, JT, had an itchy scalpel finger and the doctors dosed me up with some curative nebulisers and decided to go ahead regardless. The surgery went well and I was wheeled back up to the ward where Papa Edwards was reading The Times, still a little woozy and sore, and found JT had also considerately jammed a drain into my forearm to remove any blood stemming from some genial internal bleeding.

I abhor staying the night in hospital, but I am nothing if not a team player, and also I couldn…