Not good times, mostly
My mother has not been too well, lately, and despite my and my father’s efforts to persuade her to see a doctor see was intransigent in her refusal to do so. Yesterday he insisted, though, and within a few hours my mother had been admitted to hospital. We don’t know precisely what the problem is, as we haven’t been able to talk to the medical staff yet, but the likeliest problem seems to be some cardiac difficulty given her condition; there are other possibilities, though. We should know more later this morning. I am confident that she’ll get treatment which will help her a lot.
This is exactly what I didn’t need, quite apart from the obvious fact I don’t want my mother to be ill. The problem is that she has been admitted to Stobhill. There’s nothing wrong with it as a hospital - it’s rather good, in fact - but it is a fucking awful place to get to. As far as I can see (which might not be too far, given how bad the route map is) it is served by two buses, neither of which it is easy to see where you might get it, neither of which runs more frequently than every half hour, and neither of which runs at night (probably). Yesterday, I tried to make sense of the bus route map, failed, and got a taxi from the city centre as I could not waste more time - but I can’t afford to do that too often. The nearest railway station is still far away enough to require a taxi from it to the hospital. Getting there from here takes quite some time, I need to allow at least an hour and a half. Once there, it is one of those sprawling hospitals where you have to walk for ages along long, long corridors to get anywhere.
A while ago - was it two years? I’m not sure - my father was in there for major surgery (which went well), and even though he was not in for long, going out there with my mother led to my having a serious relapse for the best part of two months; I was pretty much not up to anything. As I am coming out of a bit of a relapse at the moment, this doesn’t bode well... In fact, last night I had more extensive fasciculation in my legs than I have ever had (it made getting to sleep difficult), and I was very shaky on my feet this morning. I am going to have to really pay attention to the organisation of my rest, which hasn’t been necessary for several years. Bugger.
On the good side of things, Trout last night was pleasant, with some faces I haven’t seen for a while, a good turnout, and the prospect of a Trout trip to the Paisley Beer Festival. Also good was the discovery that the “poetry reading” which was apparently going to take place in the Ingram on the same night as the pre-Eastercon Trout is in fact a readings session organised by the local SF writing group, in fact by one of the Trouts! All simple, and we will have most of the pub that night by the looks of it.
This is exactly what I didn’t need, quite apart from the obvious fact I don’t want my mother to be ill. The problem is that she has been admitted to Stobhill. There’s nothing wrong with it as a hospital - it’s rather good, in fact - but it is a fucking awful place to get to. As far as I can see (which might not be too far, given how bad the route map is) it is served by two buses, neither of which it is easy to see where you might get it, neither of which runs more frequently than every half hour, and neither of which runs at night (probably). Yesterday, I tried to make sense of the bus route map, failed, and got a taxi from the city centre as I could not waste more time - but I can’t afford to do that too often. The nearest railway station is still far away enough to require a taxi from it to the hospital. Getting there from here takes quite some time, I need to allow at least an hour and a half. Once there, it is one of those sprawling hospitals where you have to walk for ages along long, long corridors to get anywhere.
A while ago - was it two years? I’m not sure - my father was in there for major surgery (which went well), and even though he was not in for long, going out there with my mother led to my having a serious relapse for the best part of two months; I was pretty much not up to anything. As I am coming out of a bit of a relapse at the moment, this doesn’t bode well... In fact, last night I had more extensive fasciculation in my legs than I have ever had (it made getting to sleep difficult), and I was very shaky on my feet this morning. I am going to have to really pay attention to the organisation of my rest, which hasn’t been necessary for several years. Bugger.
On the good side of things, Trout last night was pleasant, with some faces I haven’t seen for a while, a good turnout, and the prospect of a Trout trip to the Paisley Beer Festival. Also good was the discovery that the “poetry reading” which was apparently going to take place in the Ingram on the same night as the pre-Eastercon Trout is in fact a readings session organised by the local SF writing group, in fact by one of the Trouts! All simple, and we will have most of the pub that night by the looks of it.