What the *%&^, how did I get back here???

I am now back in hospital and wondering how in the heck I came to be here. Being admitted was not on my agenda for the day! Twelve hours ago I did treatment, took a shower, ate some lunch, kissed Alastair goodbye and said I would see him in a few hours. I had planned on going to the hospital to have my line changed and then thought I might do some shopping for a friend's birthday present.  But instead of a quick line change and a spot of shopping,  I am now in hospital.  How did this happen?, I keep thinking.

I know it has something to do with last night and my line failing before my evening dose and me leaving a message for CF nurse this morning to inform him of the situation. He called me back a little before 1 pm and said if I felt better then I could just be done with IVs, but if I didn't feel better then I would need to come back to get another line and a few more days of drugs. I picked option 2 as I was feeling better... but not better enough.

I saw the doctor from Monday and one minute he was talking about me doing another day or two of drugs and the next he was talking about admitting me. The change in plan was so quick it made me wonder if I had missed a large chunk of the conversation. He and the other doctors felt that I hadn't improved more because I wasn't getting my antibiotics regularly. No point in me running back and forth constantly every time my line failed, he said. Better to be here so that the problem could be rectified immediately, he said. I think I agreed, albeit hesitantly, thinking I would be saved by the bed shortage I am always hearing about. But no, there was a bed. Lucky me.

Before I headed downstairs, Nurse I Like The Big Obvious Vein came to put a line in. He asked where he had put one in the last time, like he wanted to see his past handiwork. I looked down at my bruised and battered arms and wondered if he maybe had a few screws loose, thought about giving him a look that said: Does it matter? You can't use the same place, ya know? Can't you see the bruises? And none of your lines have been great anyway, you silly twit! I didn't give him this look though and just  examined my arms for possible spots instead. He then proceeded to tell me that his aunt, whom he hadn't spoken to in 12 years,  was a lawyer In Vegas, lived in the States for 11 years and had suddenly tracked him down and called today. He went on for awhile, recounted bits of their conversation and then just sort of stopped in the middle and said nothing further on the matter. I thought about telling him that he didn't really have a future in storytelling.

After some silence I eventually piped up and asked him not to put a line in my hand, which he had been eyeing.  He sighed and looked lovingly at the big, blue veins in my hands and told me that I had the world's sexiest (read: thin and no good for lines) veins. He searched around, stuck me in the arm without success. He explained about me bruising easily, like he was telling me something I didn't already know.  And I now have a line in my left hand.

So I am staring at my left hand that has been rendered useless by the IV and looking at my bags that Alastair packed and brought and I haven't unpacked and still wondering how I got here.  Cause when I left the house this afternoon I had an agenda and I am pretty sure the agenda did not include a long weekend away at Chateau Le Hospital.