Then it all went a bit wrong.
As if by the flick of a switch I found myself on the floor, unable to move and with my heart feeling like it wanted to escape from within my chest. I don't remember much of what else happened, until I woke up in A&E, but I am reliably informed that it involved a fair bit of vomit and the mother of all panic attacks. I love those buggers.
By the time I had come around I was confronted by a fairly nice doctor, who seemed surprised when I told her I was diabetic. She had my notes in her hands, maybe they'd missed that snippet of information of which might explain why they had no idea what was wrong with me. Anyway, she then checked my blood sugar, which would have been a decent idea in the first place really.
It came back fine. Everything came back fine. So, baffled, I was told I would be spending the night. I told my friends they could depart for home, having spent the best part of four hours by my side as I apparently had several bouts of not knowing where I was, trying to escape the hospital and at one stage appearing to stop breathing. Fun times for all involved. I regretted saying they could leave, because the whole thing got fairly dull afterwards, but after another hour or so I was unhooked from my painkiller drip (it hadn't worked all that much, my chest still wanted to explode,) and wheeled off in a chair through the inner echelons of the hospital. Through a variety of dimly lit corridors I rode, stopping only once to wait for the lift which took me down a level and eventually in to the men's ward. There I was checked in, put by a bed and told to take off my shoes (which happened to be bright red and look like they were worn in Back to the Future,) and try and get some sleep. I did try, for all of two minutes, before a nurse came over to check I wasn't likely to die during the night. She decided I would live, as did a surgical consult (this made me feel very important,) and eventually I was allowed to rest. This proved tricky as the man next to me insisted on snoring like a train, but I think I managed to close my eyes for a bit.
When I had last seen the time it was 5:40am. By the time I woke up, it was 6.00am, and trust me, twenty minutes sleep did not fare well with me. I wanted very much to try again, but the emergence of a range of lights and staff meant this was an impossibility. One asked me if I had brought a change of clothes with me. I hadn't, surprisingly, had time to pack before I rushed off in an ambulance, so a change of clothes was not an option. It was at this point that I realised I was wearing very much the clothes of a man on a night out; a bright pink polo shirt, skin tight black jeans and the previously mentioned bright red shoes. It was no wonder, then, that the doctors kept asking me how much I had drank the night before. Four glasses of wine and a bit of beer does not constitute as a night out in my books, so it was not this to blame.
After I'd stolen a drink of water (having been told I couldn't drink or eat until told otherwise,) I was checked over by a whole new nurse and offered some pain relief, which I could not swallow due to my stomach wanting to leave via my mouth. Thus, the gift of hospital breakfast was not met with much of a smile. I managed one triangle of toast and a couple of sips of tea before I gave up, which I thought was a pretty decent effort.
It turned out I wasn't the only diabetic on the ward, with the elderly chap opposite me also being one of the special few who could not eat cake. He kept trying to listen to the radio through his headphones, only he'd forgotten to plug his headphones in so we could all hear the joys of Radio Lincolnshire blasting out from his bed. Later on a man came in with "chronic pane, everywhere," and told the story of how it happened as if he had been in some sort of war. He hadn't, he just had kidney stones, and he spent the rest of my time there plotting his escape.
Anyway, time came and went, and pretty soon I was bored. I still felt like death, but I would have been happier feeling like death back at home rather than in a disgustingly clean hospital ward surrounding by the dying. So I made up a lie about me feeling amazing, ignoring their very tempting offer of waiting for lunch (no sarcasm here. I genuinely did want their chicken curry,) and gave my very tired flatmate a bell to come pick me up.
Like a gem, that's just what she did, and I arrived home to find remnants of the night before. Despite it having not been alcohol that caused the problem (no-one knew what that was... great,) that was the last thing I could remember tasting, so smelling it upon opening the flat door didn't make me feel too fancy. The effects of no sleep soon caught up on me and I found myself in and out of sleep for most of the day, a problem not helped by watching Pray, Eat, Love, a Julia Roberts film about food, I think.
I slept like a baby that night, having finally gotten rid of all the many sticky pads I found all over my chest. They hurt when you're fairly hairy...
I will again sleep like a baby tonight. Not due to a lack of sleep before, more because it's my graduation on Thursday and I need to look fresh for my ten seconds of fame. Fingers crossed my mystery illness won't strike again as I stand on the stage, else you know, I'll look like a tit.