While still in the process of deciding where to go with this blog (don’t tell me!), please allow me to indulge this time in airing my moans.
My GP referred me to a gynaecologist for urgent investigation. First, there were the usual kinds of admin problems. I received an appointment letter on the day, and after the time, that I should have been there. I phoned the receptionist who fitted me into a clinic a couple of days later under the care of someone else. I was seen by a registrar, and apparently some of my case notes were missing. She immediately sent me to the pre-op clinic. I arrived home to find a letter asking me to attend the appointment I had just attended, saying my previous appointment had been changed. I was put on hospital standby for an investigative operation and went in on Monday. Just before my admission, I received a letter from my GP saying she had heard from the gynaecologist that I had not attended for my appointment at his clinic. Once in hospital, nobody knew which consultant I was supposed to be under (and neither do I).
A few days earlier at my pre-op med, the nurse put the blood pressure monitor cuff on my arm and then she said ‘We’ll do the next test at the same time.’ The pre-hospital tests now include screening to ensure you’re not a carrier of MRSA. Anyway, she started pushing a swab on the end of long stick up my nose (at the same time as the BP cuff on my arm was tightening!). As it happened, the swab didn’t have to go far up my nostril but I didn’t know that at first. I just saw the long stick and thought ‘OMG!’ Needless to say she was then concerned that my BP was too high! (Fortunately, the second reading was fine).
To cut a long story short, the worst of it is that after bravely (or not) facing my fear of doctors, hospitals, general anaesthetics and medical procedures, I’ve got nowhere. I came round from the anaesthetic to be told that they hadn’t been able to go ahead with the procedure due to a complication. They’re attempts were bringing too great a risk of perforating my organs so they had to stop. Not their fault this time, I know, but I wonder if my body holds memories of past damaging treatments and has found a way of saying, ‘Leave me alone, you sods! Keep out!’
Yes, I know I shouldn’t moan when others are much worse off than me and I’ve no right to feel sorry for myself and blah, blah, blah. So now I will go and cheer myself up with a big piece of chocolate cake. Oh, I can’t, can I? It still hurts badly when I swallow, due to the tube they inserted.
