The Day My Chest Decided to Give Up (A Trip to Pinderfields I Didn’t Plan For)

 

Well…

as if chemo wasn’t already doing the absolute most,

my body decided to throw in a little surprise side quest today.

 

I’ve been struggling to breathe for a couple of days —

properly struggling —

like someone had parked an elephant across my chest and forgotten to move it.

 

I couldn’t catch a full breath.

Couldn’t lie flat.

Couldn’t walk without feeling like I’d climbed Everest barefoot.

 

Mum took one look at me gasping  and said,

“Right. I’m ringing the doctor.”

 

Doctor came out, listened to my chest, frowned in that way that means trouble, and said:

 

“We need an ambulance.”

 

Brilliant.

Exactly how I wanted to spend my day

 

Paramedics arrived and did their checks.

I heard them say:

 

“40 year-old, stage 3 cancer, possible chest infection.”

 

CHEERS LADS, JUST ANNOUNCE IT TO THE WHOLE STREET WHY DON’T YOU.

 

Then boom — straight to Pinderfields.

Blue-light taxi.

 

I was wheeled round to Majors, triaged, cannula in, saline running, oxygen levels monitored, the usual chaos.

 

Had bloods done.

Chest X-ray.

Observations.

More questions.

More waiting.

 

Mum sat next to me the whole time looking more stressed than me and she wasn’t even the one dying for breath.

 

Finally, after poking and prodding me for what felt like forever, they came back with:

 

Chest infection.

Borderline pneumonia.

Actually… walking pneumonia.

 

Walking pneumonia.

????

 

Mate — I can barely walk to the toilet without assistance, but sure, call it walking pneumonia.

Makes me sound athletic at least.

 

Apparently it cracks and rattles so loudly in my chest that the staff didn’t even need a stethoscope.

 

They said it can get worse very fast —

love that for me —

but they caught it early enough to hit me with antibiotics, fluids, and monitoring.

 

And then, just like that:

 

“You’re okay to go home.”

 

Three and a half hours.

In.

Diagnosed.

Hooked up.

Treated.

Discharged.

 

A personal record for the NHS.

 

Mum  and me waitrd for the Uber,  both of us exhausted.

She looked like she’d aged ten years.

 

Now I’m finally back home,

curled up in my bed,

antibiotics beside me,

still wheezing like an accordion someone sat on.

 

But I’m safe.

I’m home.

I’m breathing.

Kind of 

Terrifying, actually.

Breath is something you don’t appreciate until your body suddenly forgets how to do it.

Really makes you think , do I want to carry this on, the illness, my mental health doesn't know if I can carry on