Finished the second lot of antibiotics and the tooth still hurts. Whatever can be wrong? I'm damned if I'm going back to that new dentist who wants to charge me £1800 for an implant as he says the tooth next to it (the last in the row as I lost the wisdom tooth) is too heavily filled and fragile to take a bridge. I am going to have to return cap in hand to my old dental surgery, the one I went to for a staggering 31 years, and beg them to take me back and put me back on Denplan. To think I resented paying £31 per month. Since I left, I've spent at least £500 and STILL have the problem, which would have been paid for under Denplan. Grrrr!
And despite pouring a whole bottle of Otosporin down my ear, that's no better, either. I am in despair. I would love to be scooped up, deposited in a luxury spa cum clinic, and have all my annoying problems fixed. And that includes the piles! How glamorous, eh?
We both survived the green chicken. Very strange, though. There was a long green streak on one side only, just beneath the breast bone. It looked as if someone had put sage and onion stuffing in while the bird was still alive! I shall await with interest M&S's response to my email. Wonder if they'll want to see the photos? In fact, I'll put one on the blog when I've taken them off the camera.
Went to local mini M&S today and they had Oakham chickens half price at £3.99 so I bought one, cooked it this evening, carved it and there, in the centre of the breast was a green stripe. The bird smelt OK. We ate the wings and legs but left the breast. I wanted to keep the whole thing and take it back but I've lost the blasted receipt, so instead I kept the wrapper and a sample, took some photos and slung it all out for the fox. Now I am queasily anticipating an attack of food poisoning. Just as well we have three loos!
I have emailed M&S about it, though if they offer me a free chicken, I am definitely not interested. Mr Grumpy is crowing and says it serves me right for buying reduced food. Apparently he only did it once. He bought a tin of reduced corned beef and was terribly ill. My tum has just given an enormous gurgle. Oh dear.... !
I woke up very early this morning, around 5 am, to find a miracle had occurred. I was actually feeling all right. Not only that but I was positively bouncy. I lay and listened to the radio and read my book for a while - Kate Williams' excellent biography of Emma Hamilton called England's Mistress - then got up. Yes, my tooth still hurts slightly when I prod it, yes, my ear is still buzzing and a bit sore, but compared to how I had been feeling, this was positive perfection. I walked briskly to the post office, got caught in a shower and came back clutching my brolly and whistling Singin' In The Rain. Later, I walked equally briskly to the mini M&S where I found all kinds of reductions and for a little over a fiver got two big packs of mushrooms, some cashew nuts, yogurt and a very large chicken.
Now it's 2.40 pm and I have become gradually more aware of a sore throat beginning, and painful neck glands. With a sinking feeling, I recall having felt like this healthy, energetic euphoria before, not for a long, long time though. In the days when I still got periods and frequent migraines, I christened it the 'dangerously well' feeling, as it always preceded the 'monthlies', the migraine or some kind of cold or flu virus. Oink!
It surprises me that dentists can hand out antibiotics willy-nilly without making any enquiries about one's general state of health. I have heard that taking too many too close together can set off ME. An acquaintance who was once a bright city barrister has been declining for 15 years and is now bedridden with ME following two courses of antibiotics. She has an appointment with Dignitas next month as she can no longer even read or watch TV as her eyesight is failing, too, and she is in so much pain and has no quality of life, and she puts it all down to the antibiotics, as does another friend who was unlucky enough to contract meningitis while on his honeymoon in St Lucia, was given a very heavy dose of antibiotics and is also in a wheelchair with ME now. Then there was Sheila. She was involved in a bad car accident that resulted in her spleen having to be removed, and lots of antibiotics, and again, ME folllowed. I last saw her ten years ago. She was also wheelchair dependent. We lost touch and she may even be dead now.
So my question is, should I be taking double-strength Amoxicillin handed out by my dentist, which is making me feel sick and a bit dizzy and is keeping me awake all night with stomach-ache, just to save my tooth? Am I risking ME? I am worried sick.
2009 will go down in my book as the year of the tooth. The problem started way back in March and to get to almost the end of July and STILL have pain in it is just unbelievable. The first two dentists who examined it were convinced there was a crack in the tooth. The third, whom I am still with, suspected infection and he was right. He's drilled and filled the root canals, given me a course of Amoxicillin, and I had one blissful week when I could eat on that side of my mouth again, until back came the pain.
Now I have been put on double strength Amoxicillin which, though I only started on it three hours ago, is already making me feel rotten. If this doesn't work, it will have to come out. Wish I'd had it yanked out in March. It has ruined my year so far. I have been unable to book holidays or even spend a weekend away. I can't sleep on my right side. The only plus point is that I've lost a bit of weight. But now I can't even distract myself with a nice bottle of wine until a week tomorrow. If I so much as sniff alcohol whilst taking Amoxicillin, I get violent stomach pains.
The even worse news is that if it has to come out, my NHS dentist charges £1200 for a bridge. Can you believe it? My friend in Cornwall got hers done for £200. Talk about rip-off London prices. So not only is my year being ruined, my bank balance is about to go the same way. As if I wouldn't rather spend £1200 on a slap-up holiday! I'll just have to sell the rest of my clothes on eBay. And auction the cat.
In my researches about how to cure an infected tooth without antibiotics, I discovered colloidal silver and sent for some. As well as drinking 3 teaspoonsful a day, you can spray it directly onto the tooth. I started yesterday and already it feels a little less painful. But I've made an appointment with the dentist on Monday, just in case he feels it's time it came out.
In the meantime, I've been dealing with deafness and earache and horrible tinnitus in my left ear. Having shovelled all kinds of things down in including aloe vera ear drops, I finally went to the doctor yesterday. It was a locum, standing in for my own lovely GP who is on maternity leave and as soon as I saw his sour expression and the way he rocked back in his chair and wouldn't make eye contact, I knew I was onto a loser. He looked down one ear only, didn't even tell me what he saw and prescribed the same antibiotic eardrops -Otosporin - that I always get and which result in my ears being bunged up with gluey wax and having to be syringed. All because I get eczema on my ears inside and out, and don't know what causes it. I have now chucked out my expensive shampoo and conditioner and bought some Simple products. If I still get eczema, then perhaps I should never wear earrings (the other possible culprit) again.
I typed 'hidden list' first time. Freudian slip? Anyway, the last two nights I've been having amazing dreams. Two nights ago I was such a secret secret agent that even the intelligence agencies had no knowledge of me. My ex literary agent was involved in this one as he got me into the offices of - I dunno, MI5? - then he and some high-up spook disappeared down a corridor, leaving me to find my own way out which involved lots of bluff and spook-speak, all the while with some secret papers covered in strange symbols burning a hole in my pocket. On top of all this, I realised I was suffused with lust for the literary agent. I woke up thinking how enigmatic he was, and that that was the secret to his sexuality. Well, really!
Last night, I was with Mr G at an open air rock gig. We were sitting in a field watching this Bonzo Dogs type band playing weird instruments. Then a couple came up to him - some characters from his past - and they got talking and Mr G said that the woman (with tight grey curls and rather coarse skin) could have been his daughter and probably was. Next thing, they'd all vanished. Soon, though, I was joined by a member of the band who took me for a drink. He was just the kind of hippy I'd have fancied 35 years ago, pale skin and afro hair and big brown eyes and a kind of love-and-peace, calm aura about him. Probably stoned out of his skull! We got talking about music and I felt more and more attracted to him. Not just physically, either. Turned out he was a free spirit who lived at a friend's farm in the country and loved nature. There was something very healing about being in his presence.
Then my friend Penny came up (haven't seen her for ages in real life) and ruined it as he got up to go, while I was still ripping bits of paper out of my address book, tearing up people's details as I tried to find a scrap big enough to scribble my email address on; in my haste I kept writing it down wrong. Then it was too late, he'd gone.
Penny apologised and we got talking, but later he was suddenly standing there and telling me, "I recognise the writer's haunted-eyed look" and said he was going to dedicate an album to me. This time I did manage to give him my email address and said, "Nothing heavy, let's just chat, what's your name?" and he told me "Moor", like the TV detective Morse. But Moor suited this creature of the fields and countryside. I suddenly saw beyond normal dimensions and saw him as being more than a normal human being. "You're an earth angel," I told him. "You've been put here to heal." He just smiled and walked off, leaving me still with this feeling of being totally suffused in feelings of attraction for him on all levels.
What IS going on in my head? I feel I'm getting in touch with sides of me that I haven't been in touch with for a long time.
An ex from over forty years ago returned the letters I wrote to him while I was at university. Reading through a couple, I'm struck by how little I've changed. I did nothing but moan about headaches, stomach aches and colds even at the age of 19!!! And I grumbled about my parents non-stop and now I'm grumbling about poor old Mr Grumpy. Is there no hope for me? (Don't answer that!) Next time I exhume them from the depths of a box I'll quote some examples. They really are wince-making.
I'd booked to go to Liverpool by train today, see the show The Hypochondriac tonight and stay overnight with a friend and come back tomorrow. A very bad plan as it turned out. It wasn't till after I'd booked the theatre tickets on line that they sent me an email saying they had to picked up an hour before the performance by the person who had booked them and could show them the credit card they were bought with. This meant that if I didn't go for some reason, my friend couldn't collect the tickets and use them, despite one of them being for her.
Well, I haven't gone. The bloody tomcat who keeps beating up Felix had a vicious scrap right beneath my bedroom window at 3.05 this morning. I went out in my nightie and began quietly calling Flad so as not to waken the neighbours. No response, so I locked the front door again and went out the back. No sign.
Tried to get back to sleep, but I was so worried about him possibly being injured, second fang ripped out (yes, not even a stump remains), etc., that my stomach started to churn. At 4.09 I rose again and swigged from the Gaviscon bottle. At 4.30-ish it was getting light and the damn birds had started tweeting. At 5.10 I admitted defeat, got up, made tea and started watching the telly. At 6.50 I texted my friend and told her that, after 3 1/2 hours' sleep, I was too knackered to do a long train trip and a show. I hadn't slept very well for the previous three nights, either.
I knew I couldn't get a refund on the £45-worth of train tickets, but I thought I might be able to get one on the theatre tickets, with the show being almost sold out. No chance. 'No tickets are refundable unless the show is cancelled,' say the box office's rules. So now there will be two gaping holes in the centre of the front row, plys a gaping hole in my bank balance, and all because of THAT BLOODY TOMCAT!!!
P.S. Flad is fine. When I finally got up, I found him asleep in the armchair. I had been creeping round in the dark at 3 and 4 am. Perhaps he had been there all along!
Ventured out on a sweltering Saturday for a second viewing on a flat I'd seen in East Finchley with a magnificent lounge and a wonderful garden, but everything else about it was awful. Tiny, cramped kitchen, ensuite bathroom - the only bathroom. I took a good friend with an eye for the practical and even she admitted defeat. It would need an architect and lots of money, so that was out. Also, the owner was refusing to accept an offer of only 15k under the asking price.
Onward to a house on the borders of E. Finchley and Highgate. It had parking, it was an easy walk to the tube, it was well done up inside and had lots of storage. But it had two big minuses. One was a lousy garden overhung with mammoth Leylandii and a huge conifer. The garden sloped upwards and, like any ground beneath a conifer, showed not a living grassblade, just bare, parched earth. The even bigger minus was the fact that it was right on the A1 and although the double-glazing did a pretty good job, the view from the lounge window was of a constant stream of traffic on the dual carriageway. The red hot journey home, an hour and a half on stifling tubes, was dreadful. Despite water and one of those tiny battery-operated fans, I felt sick and swimmy-headed, sweaty and stinky and was never so glad to get home. Well, Mr Grumpy's home, not mine.
Three days ago I had noticed that a house I had seen last December was back on the market. It wasn't on the tube, but it was by a train station and bus routes and a good friend lives just round the corner. I hadn't gone for it six months ago because the price was too high but now it had dropped to £289k. I woke up this morning having made a decision. I would go for it. It was a perfectly nice little Victorian 2 up, 2 down with a south facing garden. Feeling happy now that I'd made a decision and didn't have to stagger about on red hot days any more, I clicked once more onto the agent's website to have a look at my soon-to-be home. But guess what? It had a red Under Offer sign across the photograph. I could't believe it. I felt breathless and cheated and very depressed.
What now? If I don't move soon, I'll be stuck for another unspeakably awful winter in Hillingdon, with my hands blue with cold once again, trying to type with a duvet wraped round me. No, no, NO!!!