After sharing my latest ailments with anyone patient enough to listen, I received a well-educated guess of a diagnosis, where my mouthful of sores is concerned.

I actually received the same diagnosis from two separate individuals, which means it is almost certainly correct and just one step away from being as accurate as Dr Google.

… seriously, Dr Google is a fraud, whose false advice has almost certainly led to the deaths of more people than Dr Shipman. My diagnosis was made by individuals with a medical background, although for the best care, you can’t beat your own GP in the first instance.

Disclaimer over. I would have felt awful had one of my dwindling blog readers consulted Dr Google as a result of my tongue-in-cheek recommendation and died as a result! I don’t think he’s even registered with the General Medical Council.

Back to me…

The educated diagnosis was that my mouth was full of thrush. Fucking hell, thrush? I’d rather have foot and mouth.

My fear of thrush dates back to my school days, when a kid who I’ll just call Billy Big Bollocks claimed to be sleeping with lots of girls and had finally caught a Sexually Transmitted Infection… thrush.

While most self-respecting members of society would be mortified at the simple suggestion they may be carrying something nasty on their private parts and desperate to keep it a secret, the likes of Billy were a tad different…

He would treat his ‘positive’ result as if it was a military honour. Social media didn’t exist in the days BBB and I attended school, but if it did, his good news would be all over Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Bebo, MySpace, LiveJournal, LinkedIn and TikTok.

While we all believed Billy’s stories at the times, they were almost certainly all fabricated. Think Jay from The Inbetweeners.

More importantly, how on earth had I contracted an STI? There was more chance of me sprouting wings and flying to Spain.

I took to Google (I know, I know…) to find out if thrush is really an STI, or just a really sore mouth which shares its name with a small bird.

The news is good…

Thrush is not classed as a sexually transmitted infection (STI), but it can be triggered by sex and sometimes passed on through sex. Thrush is caused by a fungus called candida that is normally harmless. Thrush tends to grow in warm, moist conditions and develops if the balance of bacteria changes.

It sounds horrible, but at least it’s not an infection passed between careless, horny teenagers.

Just when you think that you have reached the end of the world’s worst afternoon tea service, the chef brings you out another shit sandwich.

This has been my last three weeks.

With Claire returning to work, it was my turn to approach something of a normal and meaningful existence. Things were sounding good with my employer – I won’t go into further details yet, but let’s say that I haven’t been forgotten.

The wheelchair I use upstairs, where I had previously always relied upon Claire to push me around, was now modified, providing me with the independence to get myself downstairs – something previously impossible post-accident.

Everything was looking rosy.
The next few weeks would be bright.
Instead they’ve been shite.

The chef presented me with the poo sandwich. Except it wasn’t a chef. The perpetrator’s profession was a consultant. Instead of the shitty sandwich I was given what I believed to be good news…

My cardiac issues, which literally almost killed me 26 months earlier, had been cured. Granted, I still have lots of other health problems, but knowing that my ticker is now working nicely is fabulous news.

Despite the upcoming bad stuff, I don’t see any reason why the consultant would be wrong and my heart isn’t healthy. Hang on a second – isn’t this story a tale of woe? So far it’s been brimming with positivity.

The problems started when the helpful good news doctor suggested I reduce my heart medication…

Not even thinking that this consultant may be wrong, I naturally obeyed. “Yes, doctor”; “No, doctor”; “Eat this seriously hot vindaloo curry? No problem, doctor”.

It took a week “off the pill” before I noticed the impact it was having on my health.

Breathing became a bit of a bugger. Some days later, my right foot swelled up into what I thought resembled a small loaf of bread. I was increasingly tired and started to cough up mucus.

I was prescribed antibiotics to tackle any possible chest infection. A week later, I have finished the course. It must have helped a bit, as I am only coughing up small amounts of crap, as opposed to an entire lung.

Unfortunately, while the antibiotics appear to have helped to tackle any chest nastiness, it has left my lips, tongue, throat and entire mouth covered in sores.

This made any attempt at eating a real battle. I wasted so much food, simply because I couldn’t take the suffering inflicted upon my mouth.

Anyone who thinks I’m being a bit of a diva should know that I can tolerant a lot of pain. Countless hospital visits over the past twenty years left me with little choice. So, yes, my mouth is buggered.

Put this alongside an ever-increasing ravenous hunger, due to under-eating for over two weeks (because of all the issues), and you have one nasty, vicious cycle.

After much experimenting, I discovered that it is possible for me to consume vanilla ice cream, without it feeling like I am taking part in some sadistic I’m A Celebrity game, where I am forced consume vast quantities of red hot embers.

On the plus side, I discovered a brand of instant chicken soup, which is suitable for vegetarians. Chicken soup is a wonder drug when you’re poorly and remains one of the few foods I really miss since turning veggie. Therefore, this find was of great excitement to me… my word, that sounds tragic – I need a purpose, routine and job back!

At the time of blogging, my mouth is still sore, but I am hopeful that it is improving. Yucky stuff remains on my throat, but in reduced quantities. Breathing is tough, especially in the evening, but that is getting better – albiet at the speed of a Hermes delivery driver.

The thing that makes me annoyed – no, angry – is that all of this suffering and wasted time could have been avoided.

Stopping that one small pill has acted as a catalyst for a major scare on the toilet, where I was left struggling to get air into my lungs – over three weeks of feeling breathless, tired and generally unwell – increased anxiety and stress – a chest infection – a foot the size of a Hovis loaf – and a mouth full of agonising sores.

When the consultant suggested I stop taking the pill – which was doing no harm – I wonder if they considered the effect on my respiratory system.

Anyway, should our paths cross in the future, I will continue to hold full respect and trust for them. The consultant meant well and was acting with my best interests at heart – excuse the pun!

If any doctor ever offers to decrease my current drug list, I will exercise one hell of a degree of caution!

“Yes, doctor”; “No, doctor”; “Stop taking this cute yellow pill? Only if you stop breathing natural air, that way we’re equal!”.

Of course I wouldn’t be so callous to say that. I would simply say “no thank you”, before explaining my reasons.

So to round off, I still feel pretty shit. I’m back on the pill and improving with each day. It’s taking far too long. Cry me a river.