Ho Hum! Herculean effort to suppress symptoms this morning and get to the hospital appointment at silly o'clock paid off, well sort of. Without an alarm I woke up at 5.45 except, I didn't. Having managed only to change the clock on the microwave and the cooker, the mantle clock is an hour out so I actually got up at 6.45. This meant ingestion of painkillers/anti inflammatories delayed until 7.15 ish: the consequence of which means that the rat which chews away at my spine continues to chew causing chronic pain. It still has not and will not ease today.
All medical appointments require planning but hospital appointments requires specific and additional planning. Now I am 'alone' and 'partnerless' there is no automatic cry of 'Don't worry! I'll take the morning off and take you there and hold your hand'. (Er... was there ever??? Ed.) So my lovely BF is dragooned to meet me in the car park. I actually manage to arrive on time, with sufficient coinage for the car park penalty one pays for being ill, and, although it took ten minutes to do so, I even managed to key in my car registration correctly. So far, so successfull!
I'm second in the waiting room and presenting myself to the receptionist I suddenly realise that I have not actually spoken with BF to confirm where we shall meet. Terrified I shall lose my place I explain that I need to nip out to the car park to make a call all the while hoping that the nurse type person doesn't come and call out my name whilst I am absent. BF is on voicemail. Of course she is! She's bloody driving you idiot! Shivering I return to the waitng room anxiously trying to see if my file has been removed from the pending tray. I can't tell.
Mobile rings and BF has been caught up in the complicated roadworks I got caught up in. Seconds later, it seems, the weighing person calls me into a side room and weighs me. (I have already checked on my home scales and note under 8 stone to be the measure.) The scales at the hospital, of course, are not in English and when I ask the weighing person to tell me what the English version of 52 and a bit killogams is, she is unable to do so because she does not have a conversion chart. There is, I discover later, about a 4lbs difference between us. I am returned to the waiting room and shortly my BF sweeps in majestically and we both sit shivering. There is a certain sort of 'OMG what time of day is this' tinge to our conversation bordering on hysteria. My name is called and we are shown to the second waiting area.
We watch as women in uniform and men in plain clothes stalk the corridor we are seated in. Busy, busy, busy! Some are carrying notes, some are carrying equipment, some are taking patients into side rooms. Patients to be weighed, patients to be measured, patients to be examined. Cups of tea collected from trolleys - oh! how me and BF would welcome a cup of tea. My consultant's nurse comes out of his room and we exchange greetings. She has a big, beautiful smile and makes me want to be hugged. My consultant today is the one assigned to the gastro section of my bodily malfunctions and our consultation is the follow up to the CT scan. His door opens again and out he pops. I smile winningly and he ignores me as he enters the room next to me. He's not, of course, ignoring me. He simply has not seen me. It is not my turn. I am not scheduled to be in his consciousness for at least another ten minutes, hence he does not respond.
Last time we met, Dr S came to where I was seated, smiled, greeted me, shook my hand and escorted me to his room. This time he tentatively stood in his doorway and called my name. BF and I enter his inner sanctum and I remind him I am alone now and that my BF is with me to help me fill in the gaps. He shakes her hand. What followed next was, simply, appalling. The consultation was adversarial. What had I done to change things? Why was I taking one particular tablet? How frequently do your 'you know whats do the you know what? No I don't want to know about today specifically. Four times so far today you say? But what about other days? And what does it look like? You have too many things wrong with you. You have too many different pains. There is nothing I can do for you. The last drug I recommended to your GP? Oh that? Well you have just told me the steroids prescribed for your chest have had no beneficial effect on your digestive system and as the last drug I recommended is a targeted form of steroid there's actually no point in your taking it. You might as well continue with the chest ones. Gallstones? Oh yes! Nearly forgot. Leave them alone. They are doing no harm. Oh? they are causing you pain, then you need to go back to your GP for a referral to a surgeon. I don't do gallstones.
My Beloved BF is making notes for me because although I have brought a pencil and my daily log, I am too disheartened to remove it from my bag and record what he has said. Dr S dictates the bones of his letter to my GP into his recording device and tells my BF, rather sharply I thought, that she does not need to make notes, that he will do so, and, that he will send me a copy of his letter. I shake his hand and thank him for his time because I am well brunged up. What I really want to do is hit him! God help me I want to hit him. And me a pacifist, a hippy, a peace chick! I want to slap him. I am angry. I am hurt. I feel diminished. I am a bloody nuisance. I cling onto BF and fight angry tears through gritted teeth.
The de-brief takes place in my car in the car park. I am so glad BF was with me and I seek her agreement that it was as bad as I describe. She agrees. She is angry too. She confirms that, in her opinion, it was appalling. We jointly agree that if I had just the ONE thing wrong with me instead of FOUR, I might stand a chance of either being assisted in managing the problem, or, heaven forfend! be offered a repair!! So, there you go! My fault for having more than one thing wrong with me. Now we will look towards alternative sources of assistance, advice and just plain bloody concern. It would of course, suit society better, and be a lot more helpful of me if I just bloody well shut the hell up, stop whining and either develop a crisis condition which they can deal with as an emergency, or just up the doses until I no longer remember my name.
No dear reader I am not whinging and whining. I feel like a reporter. It's as if this crap is happening to someone else and not me. I can understand why people go under. God knows I have been there! Those who have loving framily and friends are fortunate because such support stops you sinking under the weight of worthlessness that is cast upon your shoulders. No wonder people die alone in their homes unfound for months. There comes a stage, if you are alone, when your resources are utterly depleted and you simply cannot fight back on any level. Negotiating life in the 21st Century appears to resemble walking through treacle whilst negotiating quicksand and speaking to people incapable of hearing.
I am fortunate: My resources, boosted by my framily and friends, have returned to me, albeit in a slightly squiggly, uppy sidey downy sort of way. My need to share words and experiences is almost an addiction that did not exist before 2008. More writer than reader now. Dr Blog. Writing therapy - don't really care what it's called. This appears to be my way of 'managing the processes' as they say in behavioural therapy circles. It's not anonymous of course. And I suppose that there may come a time when I shall be mortified at the misquotation of something years hence causing embarrassment to my framily or friends. But, whilst this helps, I shall continue. Until it is time to stop.
Stay well, for God's sake, stay well!
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx ps: BF fixed the clock in my car so I shall consult Florence when I need to know the time.
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