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Yeah, I know I promised… Sorry…

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Pinki swear

Image by Daquella manera via Flickr

Yeah, I know I promised a non-medical, non-whiney post this week, and I’m sorry, but I will shut the fuck up after this one, I pinky promise!

I had a bad day on Thursday, feeling quite rough with an Irritable Bowel stomach. The smell of my son’s dinner suddenly had me belting for the bathroom. I won’t do into details. I had a tummy bug. I was rushing – and then crawling – to the loo every twenty minutes for the next 14 hours, never sure which end was gonna blow!

And the funny thing was, apart from the actual ‘toilet time’, I didn’t feel much worse than I do any other day; I had all the symptoms I’ve had since September – cold sweats, tiredness, dizziness, shakiness, low-grade headache, achey muscles, dodgy stomach – but just a little bit more pronounced, which makes me wonder: Is this viral?

Does this sound familiar to any other ME/ Chronic Fatigue sufferers?

Well Looky Here…

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Google Catecholamines and  Pheochromocytoma – actually, don’t bother ‘cos I’ve just done it.
One of these tests I have to do, is peeing in a bottle for 12 hours. Not 12 hours straight, of course. At least I don’t think so… I think I’m meant to pee in the bottle each time I feel the urge during a 12-hour period, but who knows…

Well, anyway, I was suddenly curious; why in God’s name am I supposed to do this? What is the mad-endo-bastard trying to prove? As if he hasn’t pissed me off enough already. So I had a look at the paperwork.It says: Overnight urine test. Catecol-whatsit and Pheocrom-thingamajig.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered those Catecol-whatsits are hormones produced primarily by the adrenal glands. And the Pheocrom-thingamajig is actually a tumour on the aforementioned adrenal glands. Yep, the very same glands that were in perfect working order only yesterday.

That son-of-a-syphilis-ridden-bitch! 

Give ME Strength…

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Okay, here’s the thing: the-bastarding-endocrinologist-I-saw-yesterday-was-a-feckin’-wanky-condescending-smarmy-head-stuck-up-his-own-arse-self-righteous-arrogant-egoistic-pompous-supercilious-git-with-an-I-Am-God-You-Are-Dog-Poo-stinking-bloody-attitude!

 There. I said it. Bastard.

‘So,’ he said, ‘I’ve read your notes and reviewed the blood test results, and I can’t see anything wrong with you.’

Oh.

‘So why am I sleeping all day? Why do I have wonky blood readings? Permanent exhaustion? Low blood-pressure? Palpitations when I walk upstairs? Why do I ache? What’s causing the pain?’

‘Let me ask you something. Why are you so convinced you have Addison’s disease?’

Huh? Now call me neurotic – I’ve been called worse things – but the only way he could’ve known I was concerned about the accuracy of the SynActhen test findings, was if my GP had stressed it in her referral letter. So now, I’m getting the picture: he’s got me pegged as a difficult, Munchausen’s Syndrome patient or a raving hypochondriac. Great.

‘I’m not. Who said I was? I queried the cortisol levels in the test. I thought they were supposed to double. I questioned whether they were accurate enough to exclude further investigation. There’s something wrong with me and I need to find out what it is. I don’t give a flying monkey’s arse what  the diagnosis is, I just need to find out what it is, so I can address it. I’m forty-four, not eighty-four! I’ve got things to do, books to write! I don’t enjoy feeling this wretched all the time, you know!’ By this point I was all high-pitched and quivery-lipped.

A toddler girl crying
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‘Well, it’s not Addison’s. I’ll run a couple more tests to check your hormone levels and pituitary gland, but I’m not expecting to find anything wrong. Here, ‘ he said, shoving my symptom list back across the desk, ‘take this with you when you see Professor Pinchin. I think you’ll find you’ve  got Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.’

Notice he said, when and not if  you need a second referral.

‘Just before you go, have you thought about taking anti-depressants?’

Arrrrgggggghhhhhhh!

It takes 45 minutes to drive home from the hospital. I made it back in 26. I was steaming!

More Fast and Furious: Music from and Inspired...

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Where do these doctors get this I Am God mentality? Do they teach it in medical school? Alongside ‘How to humiliate, patronise and thoroughly piss-off a patient’?

I did what I always do when I need de-stressing: I shouted at The Ex. And then I marched into my doctor’s surgery, demanding to see my GP.

‘We’ll just had a cancellation, Tiny. It must be your lucky day!’

Yeah, right.

I repeated the whole conversation to my GP. By this point I was wailing with frustration.

‘I’m hanging on by a fingernail here, and now I have to wait three weeks for the results of these new blood tests and then another four months for a second referral! I can’t cope! And now I’m crying! I never cry! I just want to feel better! And nobody believes me! You all think I’m just lazy or a moaner! I need some help here! I need somebody on my side!’ Tears were coursing down my face, mingling with snotty snot bubbles.

‘To be honest, I always thought we were looking at Chronic Fatigue, but we have to rule out everything else first. You need to rest, my love. Take a year off from work, avoid anything stressful.’

‘And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that? I’m a single parent, the only breadwinner in the house?’

‘Look, I know you’re upset. We’ll get to the bottom of this, but in the meantime, would you consider taking an anti-depressant?’

‘I’ve been on anti-bloody-depressants since September. Double dosage since Christmas!’

‘Oh, well, they don’t seem to be doing much to help…’

‘That’s because this isn’t fuckin’ depression!’  Yet!

Arrrrgggggghhhhhhh! 

It’s My Birthday and I’ll Cry if I Want to…

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Yay! Go, me! It’s my birthday!

Happy Birthday to Me!
Happy Birthday to Me!
I’m only Forty-Something, but I Look Ninety-three!  

   

Happy Birthday to Me!

Image by jo-h via Flickr

 

I stumbled down the stairs this morning and found what can only be described as a catastrophic explosive mess. The kitchen looked as if we’d been ransacked and burgled. It really should have been cordoned off with crime-scene tape – every work-surface was cluttered, every kitchen utensil I own was filthy and there were strange vomit-like lumps and splatters over the floor, up the walls and dripping down the cooker. And the washing machine. And the – You get the picture, right?

Hmm…had the burglar been sampling my cooking? Would I find him in a corner somewhere, cowering, covered in sick and clutching a plastic jug our family’s antique, solid-silver gravy dish?

And then I found the letter.

Dear Mum,

I attempted to make you a birthday cake last night. I fucked it up, but it’s the thought that counts, eh? 🙂 I used the cake tin to cook it in, but probably should have used common sense and realised it had gaps in the bottom,* so the cake mixture leaked over the bottom of the oven and nearly caught fire! Lol! That’s why there’s burnt Victoria Sponge in the bin, on the floor and pretty much all over the kitchen.
I’ve done a preliminary tidy-up
(You did? Ye Gods! What did it look like before??!) but I’ll sort the rest out in the morning. It’s probably a good idea NOT to use the oven ’til it’s been cleaned, either.  🙂
I’ve gone to Canada for a few weeks to stop you killing me. Give me a ring when you’ve calmed down.
Oh, and Happy Birthday!
I’m sorry!!
Love you loads!!  Nigel! XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 * Loose-bottomed tin that needs lining! 

What can I say? I taught the boy everything he knows. I’m so proud! 🙂

Am linking up with Cole at All the Small Stuff just for the lol factor: everyone has else has added delicious recipes! 🙂

Photobucket

Oh Bum!

Bum, bugger and bollocks! Have just changed the blog theme – should’ve ‘pre-viewed’ but I ‘activated’ instead and have now lost the awards, image, Facebook thingy and Twitter!

Bum! Will take me ages to re-find and re-load all that fo’shizzle!

Oh, now I like this Tweet button!

Free twitter badge

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Today is International Women’s Day and I want more research done into “sex-based biology” (via My Not So Fictional Life)

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Slight change of plan on today’s agenda, but I wanted to share a post, written by Emily over on My Not So Fictional Life. She’s made some great comments and we’d both love to hear your views:

Today is International Women's Day and I want more research done into "sex-based biology" On the one hundredth anniversary of its creation, I want to use this year's International Women's Day to talk about a rant that I had over on Tiny Temper's blog last week. You see, I pointed out the sad fact that much of the research done in pharmaceuticals and medicine is rarely done for the benefit of women. Or rather, researchers fail to account for the differences between male and female brains when researching and developing drugs, and only … Read More

via My Not So Fictional Life

It’s all in the jeans – I mean, genes…

capture

Image by Limbic via Flickr

Men and women are different. And not just in the obvious way. We have different priorities, thought processes and behaviour . Not rocket science, I know, but it makes you wonder why?  I remember sending someone a birthday card with this amazing snippet of wisdom on the front:

How to turn a woman on: Caress, pamper, massage, empathise, serenade, compliment, soothe, stroke, whisper, hug, tantalise, protect, smooch, nuzzle, charm, listen to, trust, defend, spoil, worship, adore, acknowledge, embrace, tease, idolise, die for, phone, anticipate, hug, love, ignore fat bits, stimulate, praise.

How to turn a man on: Get naked. Bring beer.

And it all goes back to what’s in his jeans – I mean, genes. One of Man’s greatest instincts is to procreate, to ensure the species survives. Poor old Stone-Age Man, needing to do the business, yet surrounded by fiercely predatory creatures – sabre-toothed tigers, wooly mammoths and rampaging mothers-in-law. His engine had to vroom from 0 to 60 at a second’s notice, making sure he reached his …er…destination in as short a time as possible. The risk of having something sharp and pointed plunged in your butt would do that to a man.

Us girls, of course, are more like diesel engines. Turn the key. Wait for the red light to go out. Ease s-l-o-w-l-y away from the kerb. Slip into second gear…You know the score. And I’m sure this is because our Stone-Age sisters couldn’t afford to get carried away; they were too busy guarding hubby’s bottom, while he got on with the serious business of hiding the hot-dog.

And you know why most men have a pet name for their penis? It’s because they don’t want  a stranger making 99% of their decisions for them  😉

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