A Reluctant Errand
It is the fear of
becoming a pin cushion that forced me out into the rain to visit the local
store at the junction across the road, to buy water: the still and the
sparkling variety, in packs of eight.
An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)
I generally have no
taste for still water unless it is mixed with a fruit cordial. I even remember
a time when taking a sip of water made me sick, so I turned to carbonated soda
water or tonic water for my fluids instead.
From that, I
naturally began to drink sparkling water, and it has remained my main way of
taking water ever since, apart from a break of almost a year after
radiotherapy, when I drank cranberry juice instead.
No Camel, Sadly
The truth is that I
do not drink enough fluids, and it is not as though I am a dromedary, able to
store water in a hump whilst I traverse the desert sands. Fruit juices, or
beverages like tea, primarily Earl Grey, and sometimes coffee, are not a good
substitute for water.
Brian is always on my
case about not drinking water. My pills generally go down well on a cocktail of
cranberry and orange juice; I do like a fruit cocktail, and grapefruit with
orange juice is such a draw, though one should be mindful of how the former affects
a good deal of medication.
Stuck in Limbo
As I write this blog,
the aftertaste of still water lingers, and my pills still give the feeling that
they have not descended into my stomach, but are lodged in my throat. Sparkling
water would never leave me in a state of limbo, unsure of whether peristalsis
is in order or whether I should eventually expect eruptive emesis.
I sit up and open the
other bottle of sparkling water, take a few gulps, and settle in the hope that
the pills will not venture to be seen again, in a puddle of bitter vomit. Food
impaction is too much of a lived experience to be taken lightly; I have choked
on pretty much everything that can be swallowed.
Blood From a Stone
I have an appointment
for blood tests in the morning, and I am mindful of last Monday, when the veins
on both arms presented themselves but the blood dissented, and the fingertip
pricks offered too little for the required assays. I do need blood drawn for
the Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) test, in anticipation of my biannual
checkup next week.
It is better to be
safe than sorry, and I have learnt that, except in hospital phlebotomy wards
where the nurses are trained to draw blood from a stone, you might come to a
great deal of harm elsewhere with nothing to show for it. Swiss cheese having
had a better time of it.
I hear many familiar
voices: Hydrate! Hydrate!
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