Whitby – Against the odds

It’s pretty obvious I like a challenge. Sure I’m a big scaredy-cat but I like to go out, push my boundaries and find the magic that lurks outside of the comfort zone. 

Recently however a simple girls weekend away become way more challenging than planned, and as such I’m damn well claiming it for my 40 things Thingamy.

2019 we’ve established is a challenging year. *Cue the woeful violin*

I’m blessed however with some pretty fab friends to help me through it.

After struggling to coordinate dates for our annual girls weekend away for the last few years and with me being a delightful ray of sunshine, extra effort was made to ensure we got away and let our hair down.

With a destination – Whitby, and a date finally in the diary the excited countdown could begin.

With some annoyance a week before the trip I developed a sore throat. Troublesome but I’m not good at being ill so best to just ignore it and it’d be gone by Friday right?

Two days later, I’m sick. Sick enough for me to actually bother with the Doctors – so basically I’m dying.

Tonsillitis.

Antibiotics.

Not ideal but three days and I’ll surely be better in time for my trip. It’s fine. *Pleads*

Three days later, the day before the trip and things are very much not fine. 

Pain. So much pain. I haven’t eaten all week and now I can no longer speak or even open my mouth. I fear my tonsillitis has gone rogue. Googling your symptoms can always be a bit of a rabbit hole but with each search result suggesting imminent death and the fact I really need this trip away, (Preferably not in a hearse.) I reluctantly trudge back to the Doctors.

Apparently it is possible to sit in front of a GP and with one pathetic look convey the message ‘No open mouth, pain, death, plz halp.’

A halfhearted attempt to prove me wrong and open my mouth and it all kicks off. 

Telephone calls to consultants at the hospital. I’m to get myself there immediately.  

All I can think of (apart from Ouch.) is that I need to pack. Not die dammit.

I arrive at Hospital expecting to waste the day in triage. Nope. I’m met and taken straight to a side room.

Apparently the medical professionals agree with Google. Oh crap.

Prodded, poked, my head nods and shakes at the stream of questions. Then the small problem of having to give them a contact number. 

With hindsight I should’ve mimed for a pen. 

I attempt to speak ’07 oh oooohhhh’

Because my life isn’t weird enough right now, my actual throat, actually explodes. 

A geyser of blood, goo and alien life forms spews forth as I run from the room, across a busy accident and emergency department in search of privacy to spit. 

Yep, I ran for privacy, to then tell the story on the Internet. Go figure. *Shrugs*

I can be pretty feral at times, but this is a whole new level of grossness for me. So I throw some vomit in for good measure.

The walk of shame back across the waiting room covered in blood, goo and now vomit as I sheepishly announce to the bemused nurse..’Well erm it doesn’t hurt anymore…err yay!’

I’m quickly taken through to the treatment bay. Can I go pack now?

IV lines put in. Blood taken out. Drugs put in. So many drugs put in. 

I become that really annoying patient, reminding each new doctor I see that I’d very much like to go away tomorrow. 

They mostly laugh.

I’m scolded and reminded that I’m seriously unwell. I need to be on IV antibiotics for at least 24 hours, because apparently Google was spot on.

Nooooooooooooo.

My day a whirlwind of visitors, some kindly coming to check I’m ok and witness the yucky, bloody mess I’ve become (I’ve still got it though. 😉). The others wanting to cut my throat with a scalpel.

*Toes curl*

Just to confirm, that is every bit as awful as you’d imagine.

Finally at dinnertime I’m admitted to the ward and hooked up to yet more IV drugs.

Another Doctor, or as I see it another opportunity to get out of here. 

She’s not having any of it though. 

I’m told to forget about my holiday, but here’s a manky looking sandwich as a consolation prize. 

I refuse. I sulk.

She rubs it in by telling me if I’ve refused to eat I definitely wont be allowed out. 

We compromise with a jelly because, you know, there’s an extra big hole in my throat.

For once I’m a good girl. I eat my jelly.

Admitting defeat I settle in for the night.

At some small hour a consultant appears. She checks me over. Apparently I’ve earned myself a reputation. 

She tells me that she’s heard I’m desperate to get out. 

I agree and tell her why. Every tiny little detail of what has got me to this point in 2019. She listens.

She explains the seriousness of my condition and why I should be on the drip for 24 hours. However, she’s prepared to compromise. 

If I stay on the drip until 6am and my temperature drops to a normal level, I can have my throat checked sliced and if I promise to take my meds and to visit a hospital at any sign of a temperature – she’ll discharge me.

I could kiss her; only with my manky mouth it’s probably not best. I fall a little bit in love with her. 

It may be a long sleepless night but finally at 2am I’m declared temperature free. Clever me.

Sure enough at 6am my fairy godmother arrives. Unhooks me, checks me over and scalpels my throat once more. Only this time without anaesthetic.

I’m not put off though. I declare my love for her.

I promptly message the girls to tell them I’m busting out and to wait for me.

It gets better. My consultant has even found some antibiotics which wont hurt to have with a gin or two.

Never one to play it cool I give her a soppy grin and tell her my friends love her too.

She rewards me with a massive bag of drugs, this is the ‘I took a pill in Ibiza’ – Whitby remix.

A manic dash home, grabbing a bunch of mismatched outfits and washing the puke from my hair. Luckily I’m no longer the driver for the trip as planned, because I actually have no recollection of the journey whatsoever. I probably spoke just as much nonsense as usual.

That evening the opiates starting to leave my system and the luxury of food for the first time this week.

I made it!

A quick walk with the girls before an early night playing cards against humanity. It’s ok; I can still be inappropriately savage after being awake for days.

Finally some sleep. Some pretty good sleep as apparently I cuddled up to my friend in the night. Shh! Don’t tell the Doctor. 🤭

I wake the next morning and start to feel somewhere near human.

The week of course has taken its toll on me, but I can be tempted out for some restorative sea air, especially when my friends mention geocaching. I am however mostly just grateful to be here.

We head out for a walk along the Coast towards Robin Hood’s Bay, enjoying the views of the Yorkshire coastline and spending quality time with my friends.

We even find caches. In fact after years of judging my odd geocaching ways my friend finds her first ever cache. 

She was only a little bit excited. 😆

Our evening spent on a ghost walk. I’ve done one before in York, which was brilliant, this one however was mostly weird. Maybe I should have taken more opiates.

The day ending, as all good days with friends should.

A glass of decent gin raised to having made the trip, to NHS staff prepared to go above and beyond and to being surrounded by friends you love.

Cheers. 🥂

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One thought on “Whitby – Against the odds

  1. Hardcore! That is all (plus I’m glad you’re feeling better – your throat ‘explosion’ sounded like something Sigourney Weaver would be proud of tackling. In fact, you are Ripley! I’d have passed out I reckon. Bleeurgh…)

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