So! Cervical biopsy appointment day!
I was hanging around outside, waiting to be called, and overheard some woman’s phone conversation. (Notice I said overheard. I was not, of course, shamelessly earwigging; I just happened to overhear a few personal comments this woman made to her friend…)
She’d rushed her daughter to A&E that morning, forgetting to take money. The poor cow hadn’t even had a coffee since breakfast, so I emptied out my purse and donated a fiver. I love doing A Good Deed For The Day; it gives me licence to be an absolute bitch ’till bedtime!
‘Yeah,’ said The Ex, cynically. ‘I bet she’s been pulling that stunt all weekend – there’s probably £500 stuffed down her knickers!’
Should I just shoot him now?
Anyway, I digress. As usual.
I was shown into a cubicle and asked to change into one of those backless, lardy-arse-revealing gowns. The nurse and Consultant blokey had disappeared into the next room so I sat myself down and waited. And waited.
By the time they’d reappeared, I’d got myself quite comfortable – laid back, legs up in stirrups, and doing a killer Sudoku puzzle.
‘Oh! Mrs Tiny!’ cried the nurse. ‘Those gowns are designed to open at the back!’
‘Yeah, I know, but this seat’s freezing! My arse had gone numb from the cold!’
‘What? I’m quite decent! I shaved my legs and trimmed my muff specially, you know! Which reminds me, I must call DynoRod tomorrow, get the drains cleared…’
‘Okay,’ said the Consultant blokey, rifling through the paperwork. ‘We’ll do an ultrasound – Oh, you had one done a fortnight ago and it was normal… So, why are you here then?’
Good bleedin’ question!
‘Well, I’ve had irregular and heavy periods… My GP wanted a biopsy, just in case I had something … ummm… sinister going on downstairs…’
‘Oh, okay. Are you currently taking any medication?’
‘Yes, 40mg of Fluoxetine and 15mg of Norethisterone a day to stop the bleeding, but it doesn’t work, of course. Oh no, if my body decides it fancies a little bleed, then it bleeds a little. Or a lot! What can I say? I’m just the conduit, the vessel, the poor mug who can never wear white jeans!’
‘And why are you taking Fluoxetine?’
‘And are you depressed?’
‘Well! That’s the million dollar question, is it not? I don’t think so, myself. Do you think I’m depressed? Do I sound like I’m depressed?’
‘No. That’s why I asked. Look, if we find you a cushion, is there any chance you could put that gown on the right way around?’
A cushion? On the NHS? Bloody hell, was I dreaming?!
I soon woke up. Doc2 had warned me to take some paracetamol to “ease the discomfort”.
Discomfort, my arse! More like a wire brush, taped to an electric drill, hand-held by Satan. No warning! No anaesthetic! No magic cream! Just, Get in there and bore for diamonds!
And I am never having that done again without brandy. And morphine. And an epi-fucking-dural!
I honestly saw stars. And angels swathed in white light. And cartoon birdies, tweeting.
‘You’ll bleed for a few days,’ said the Consultant blokey. Well, no change there, then.
‘Oh, and for the next few weeks, abstain from sex.’ No change there, either, then…