I have been rather poorly this last week. A week last Tuesday, my husband had had enough of my complaining and sent me off to the Doctor. The Doctor sent me for blood tests. The Phlebotomist was the most unpleasant and grumpy person I have ever had the misfortune to encounter who nearly made me cry. Then I went home.
The following day I was at Playgroup being organised, and then I got a call from the Doctor informing me that she suspected I had a pulmonary embolism and said I needed to get to hospital for a scan immediately.
A round of frantic phone calls and Tareka zoomed in to collect me and the children, and we met Nana and Poppa at the hospital. The respitory specialist asked me lots of questions involving long-haul flights, smoking, contraceptive pills and obesity to which I responded in the negative and then he concluded that I did not have a blood clot, but they gave me a chest x-ray just in case.
I was sent home with a viral chest infection and a command to rest from the specialist.
As soon as I got home and allowed myself the luxury of being ill, I promptly got a lot worse and spent the weekend in bed coughing, wheezing and sleeping. I am just now starting to recover, and have anti-biotics as the chest infection has turned from a dry, wheezy cough to a wet, lumpy one. It's lovely.
This is the first time I have been ill enough to need Tareka to take more than 1 day off work to help me, I don't get sick very often, but when I do, I do it properly.