Low life
Cash cure
Jeffrey Bernard
Ithought I would try giving dialysis a miss one day last week which I did without feeling ill and I keep pondering whether or not to stop altogether until the end. The only trouble with the exit is that a new bunch of people at the Middlesex who call themselves the Palliative Care Team tell me that it would take three to four weeks which is, to my way of thinking, a hell of a -long time.
A ridiculous picture comes to mind of a man tied to a post opposite a firing squad, the squad pull their triggers and the pris- oner stands there watching the bullets coming rather slowly towards him for three weeks or more. Of course, they hasten to point out that if I took the decision to stay in my bed there is nothing they could do about it and one of them said they wouldn't be a bloody nuisance trying to persuade me to go back before it was too late. But these people have the most extraordinary knack of making you feel — me, anyway — guilty about what I do or don't do with my own body and it still belongs to me even if the lease is nearly up. But more bad news, which I am sure the more kinky readers will like to hear, is that this recent hot weather is making my symptomatic itching so bad that it is almost mind-cracking.
What an extraordinary bunch the medi- cal profession are. They can successfully perform mind-boggling cardiac operations and they can turn an entire national hospi- tal into a non-smoking area, but can they cure itching? No, they bloody can't. A year ago, when I could cope with more than one litre of fluid a day, I think I could have knocked out the worst sort of itching by sinking a few vodkas. What a paradox it is that it is now tea that is killing me. It is rapidly converted into sweat and little rivulets of it want to make me scream and roll over and over on the carpet. Those rivers of sweat are always a quarter of an inch from my fingernails.
Well, yesterday I returned to taking Chlorpromazine which I used to know in the nuthouse 25 years ago as Lagactil and which was given to us boozers to ease the hell of withdrawal symptoms. I took my first dose last night and it didn't take long to realise that they had under-prescribed the amount I should take quite fearfully, but then of course I noticed straight away that I could hardly increase the dose not for long anyway — since the hospital pharmacist had been so stingy with the amount they let me take home. Doctors really enjoy pulling their soporific punches and nowadays I hear endlessly how sympa- thetic, understanding and compassionate they are and I don't believe a bloody word of it.
And the dietician's instructions seem to me to be not only a little daft, but I am just not bothering to take any notice of them at all. No one on earth could now possibly convince me that not having a tomato and beetroot salad with a bit of cheddar cheese could improve the quality and comfort of my life. In fact, if I really thought the amount of potassium in a Chi- nese take-away could give me a heart attack I would be heading to Chinatown now. So I'm sitting here now, dreading the inevitable rise in the temperature this afternoon and looking back on the day about 15 years ago when I got sunstroke in Barbados. It is a terrible affliction but, on that occasion, the stunningly beautiful hotel manageress made it almost worth- while by spending the entire afternoon sponging me down with ice-cold water. And, oddly enough, that water in Bar- bados, which had been filtered quite natu- rally through the coral, was the most deliciously refreshing drink I have ever had. In Bridgetown they have the equip- ment for dialysis and I suddenly realise that what cures any itch and most com- plaints is £1 million in your current account.
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