The past five months have been detrimental to my waistline. Not completely overwhelming but, nonetheless, there are several extra kilos there. Let me escort you through my recent brushes with death.
Melodrama included.
I was walking home from a complete disaster of a party one afternoon in October, just when the hot weather returned. I thought nothing of it being scantily clad and all. However, I felt sluggish and dizzy, nauseous, by the time I got home. I spent the next few days laying on the floor. Brain didn’t work. Couldn’t think. Heatstroke is pretty serious and tens of thousands die from it every year.
Death: nil; me: one.
The first operation was in November for hernia. The anaesthetist put me under and I almost died. Blood pressure vanished. Then she pumped something else to get me back and my blood pressure went through the roof. I awoke happily ignorant of all this but the surgeon looked afraid when he told me about it.
Death: nil; me: two.
I caught COVID in December. I live in a share house with 7 other people so isolating is a relative lifestyle. I’m happy I’d had three vaccinations. Even so, I didn’t do a lot of eating and did an awful lot of coughing but never in the corridor or public spaces. I used the fans to keep fresh air coming through my boudoir. I infected no one. +5 for Cleverness. I’m half way to 100 this year and am happy I was able to shake this off.
Death: nil; me: three.
I started drinking cream in my coffee. With the lack of biking post-operation, I was not exercising nearly enough to stave off the chocolate-induced weight gain I’m usually able to, let alone the cream intake.
The second operation was in January on my arm to remove a steel plate and screws. These were implanted about 15 years ago in Osaka after I came off my bike and shattered both forearm bones. 8 months ago I banged my elbow several times mending a wardrobe and Golden Staph crept up the plate. Constant pain and weeping sore. 3 x 3 daily doses of antibiotics leave me nauseous and sometimes I wake up forcing myself not to vomit. I don’t want a PICC inserted into my heart to stop the infection killing me there, so let’s hope the medicine works!
Death: nil; me: four.
And finally there are the pills I take everyday to ensure I don’t die from a scratch or a random virus floating about. I’ve been taking them everyday since 2011. This underlays the near-coma, the heatstroke, the COVID and the Golden Staph. I turn 50 at the end of May.
Death: nil; me: five and I don’t want to keep counting!