Unrelated Jason Statham photo. What? I need cheering up!

I have lots of  ‘blonde’ moments and quite a few ‘incredibly dense’ ones, but I’m not completely stupid. For Doc2 appointment, I’d done my homework and rehearsed a non-confrontational, yet mature and assertive speech, stating all the reasons – quite calmly – why I would like a specialist referral: ‘ Don’t let me die! It’s been so long since I bonked, I’ve reverted to being a virgin! Pleeeeeease! Don’t let me die a born-again-virgin!’

What? I was stressed.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I’d even plonked my weighty arse upon the chair, Doc2 slid a piece of paper towards me: ‘I’ve printed out the results of your blood test showing that you don’t have Addison’s.’

Great. Fan-fuckin’-tastic. Now I knew what Doc1 and Doc2 had been discussing over their pre-surgery morning coffee. Well, bring it on!

Tiny: ‘Umm… Who interprets these results? It says at the bottom of the sheet ‘Normal synacthen response’. Who actually made that diagnosis?’

Doc2: ‘Someone at the hospital lab. They are trained, you know!’

Tiny: ‘And roughly how many of these synacthen tests do they process a year, do you think?’

Doc2: ‘Not many. It’s a rare condition. Maybe a handful?’

Tiny: ‘So, nobody specialised in this rare condition has looked at these results?’

Doc2: ‘Well, no.’

Ha! Gotcha!

Tiny: ‘You see, I’ve been in touch with an Addison’s specialist over the weekend, and he says, effectively I failed the test because my cortisol levels didn’t double, and that shows the adrenal glands aren’t working sufficiently well. He says I need to see an endocrinologist for further testing. And I’ve printed out some stuff I found on the web, supporting this view.’  *Tiny slaps a  wad of papers on the desk*

Doc2: ‘Hmm… Well, I don’t know how authentic these reports are. Did you use reputable sites?’

Tiny: ‘Yes. One has come from the official NHS website. And this guy is a leading expert in his field. And this bloke here runs – ‘

Doc2: ‘So, you’d feel happier if I referred you to an endocrinologist?’

Tiny: *squeaks* ‘Yes. Please.’

Doc2: ‘Okay, but in the meantime, I’d like to check out some other possibilities. I want you to see a gynaecologist for a biopsy.’

Tiny: ‘A biopsy? I just had an ultrasound scan and an internal, why would I need –  Oh. I see.’

So, think of me on Monday, having my bits hacked at, because Doc2 would like to rule cervical cancer out of the frame.

But, on the bright side, at least I now have a copy of my synacthen test, stating my response was Normal. So, kids, if I die in the meantime, it’s in the cabinet under my desk, filed under S for Sue the bastards for every fucking penny you can get!

Wanna play doctors and nurses?

Image via Wikipedia

Apologies for being so rubbish at posting recently. I’ve had a truly horrible couple of weeks…

First off, the blood test results:

Doc: (I swear to God he isn’t even qualified. I’m sure he’s gone AWOL from the local mental hospital, snatching a stethoscope as he legged it out of the window, but Doc is shorter to type than Annoying-Arrogant-Dickhead-In-White-Coat-With-Stolen-Stethoscope-Wrapped-Around-His-Scrawny-Condescending-Bastarding-Neck.)

Doc: ‘Okay, bloods are fine; you don’t have Addison’s. I can’t find anything wrong with you. Like I said, it’s depression.’

Tiny: ‘Umm…Okay, but  what were the actual results?

Doc: *stares blankly*

Tiny: ‘You know, the actual numbers?’

Doc: *sighs* ‘Baseline was 504. Thirty minutes after cortisol injection was 674. Sixty minutes after injection was 730.’

Tiny: ‘So, my levels didn’t double?’

Doc: ‘No, your levels didn’t double, but your baseline was within normal range, therefore, you do not have Addison’s or any kind of adrenal problem.’

Tiny: ‘Umm… Levels are supposed to double in healthy people. I should have cleared 1,000…’

Doc:’ No! You passed the test! It says so right here! Look! “Normal response”!’

Tiny: ‘With the greatest respect, I know these test results show I have adrenal insufficiency. I need to see an endocrinologist. Preferably before I have a crisis and die.’

Doc: ‘I could prescribe diazepam; you seem anxious.’

Tiny:’ Damn skippy, I’m fucking anxious! I’ve got books to write! I wanna see Eldest son graduate! I wanna see Youngest son through school and off the piggin’ X-Box! I need treatment! I need to get better! I need to stop sleeping sixteen hours a day!’

Doc: ‘Have you ever seen a counsellor about depression?’

Arrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!

On the way out I made an appointment with another GP. And if she so much as even thinks the D-word, I’ll give her bloody depression – she’ll be as miserable as I am, when a surgical team has spent three hours trying to remove that shiny stethoscope out of her arse…

Star Wars, Condoms and Loads of Corrections…

Image by Matthew Stewart | Photographer via Flickr

I’m having one of those weeks. And if I’m still sane on Saturday, it’ll be a bloomin’ miracle!

Well, sane-ish…

On Monday I visited the doctor in the morning and the vet in the afternoon. And no, I don’t have fleas, but thanks for asking.

My GP has (finally) decided to test for this Addison’s Thingy. I’m glad he took two weeks weighing the options before coming to a considered conclusion. Honestly. I’m relieved the thought of me lapsing into a potential coma didn’t rush him into making any kind of hasty decision. And I’m sure my blood-pressure hasn’t suffered any long-lasting effect. I mean, everyone has constant palpitations from time-to-time, right?

But the good news? There’s only a small chance I may go into ano  anna  annofalactic shock from the stuff they’ll use to inject me during the test.

Well, that’s okay then.

The visit to the vet was much more comfortable. My job was holding two recently neutered dogs in the back of my neighbour’s car while she drove to the clinic so they could have their stitches yanked.

Two nervous, yelping, yowling, fidgety dogs. And the poor puppy was so upset, he couldn’t help barfing up his dinner. All over me. 

.Image via Wikipedia

When I finally got home, Youngest said, ‘Urggg! What’s that horrible smell?’
‘That’ll just be me, son. I’m plastered in puppy puke.

‘On Tuesday I was back at the docs. Youngest has tonsillitis. It’s viral rather than bacterial, which means NO antibiotics, lots of lazing about in front of the TV rest,  plenty of expensive designer drinks fluids and bucket-loads of whining tender loving care.

Today I’m taking my friend to the dentist. She’s needs a tooth pulling. And she’s really phobic. I’ve promised to hold her hand; when if she feels any pain, she can break my knuckles squeeze my hand. Boy! am I looking forward to that one!

Tomorrow I have my Addison’s Thingy Test. They take an initial sample to test the levels of Whatever-It-Is in my blood. Then I get the injection of Whatever-It-Is into my blood and I have to wait for half an hour for Whatever-It-Is to circulate my bloodstream. Finally I have another blood test to see if my body has naturally generated Whatever-It-Is in response to the synthetic injection of Whatever-It-Was they injected me with.

I’m not sure when, exactly, I’m supposed to go into ano  anna  annofalactic shock. I’ll have to ask.

Finally, on Friday – if I’m still alive – I’m having an ultrasound scan. I’m not sure I want to go into details. Oh, alright, then. Since you’re so persistent, but I’m warning you: it’s not pleasant:

I’m having an … er…internal examination to see if really heavy monthly occasions are being caused by anything more …er…sinister than normal. It’s part of the whole Is-It-Time-For-a-Nap-Yet exhaustion thing. I’ll have this Star Wars type light saber instrument covered with a condom poking around where nobody’s poked around for a very long time.

I wonder if we’ll go to dinner first…

Be afraid. Be very afraid…

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Today, as a special treat, I’m giving you a glimpse into the workings of my mind. Enter at your own risk; I accept no responsibility for your personal welfare once you are inside my head.

For a while now I’ve been feeling ill. No specific symptoms, just a general feeling of urgghhh! Tired all the time, way too much falling asleep during the day, dizziness, lethargy, no energy, miserable-old-cow-syndrome

The first visit to doctor went like this:

Tiny: ‘I feel like poo.’
Dr: ‘You’re depressed. Have some Prozac’

A month later:

Tiny: ‘I still feel like poo.’
Dr: ‘You’re very depressed. Have double the dosage of Prozac.’

A month later:

Tiny: ‘I feel like really bad, stinky, smelly poo.’
Dr: ‘You have Seasonal Affective Disorder. Here, have a light box.’

A month later:

Tiny: ‘I’m now a rancid turd that’s been stuck in the U-bend for a month.’
Dr: ‘Okay, let’s run some blood tests.’

A week later:

Dr: ‘Blood tests are fine, but you do seemed stressed. I think you have anxiety issues.’
Tiny: ‘Give me a break! I don’t have the energy to be anxious!’
Dr: ‘Try resting more. Here, have these Diazepam.’
Tiny: ‘If I ‘rest’ any more, I’ll be permanently comatose!’

Yesterday:

Tiny: ‘Okay, I’ve tried everything you’ve suggested, even though I said, right from the start, that this was physical, not psychological. On Tuesday I slept for ten hours. I had another six hour’s worth of naps during the day. This morning I got up and fainted. SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH ME!!’
Dr: ‘Are you pregnant?’
Tiny: ‘Of course I’m not bloody pregnant! I haven’t bonked for decades! Don’t you read my blog?!’

I was in that examination room for an hour. Apparently, on close inspection, my sodium and glucose levels have been low for years. My potassium levels have been high for years. Coupled with low blood-pressure and my other weird symptoms, I may have  something called Addison’s Disease. It’s a rare hormonal deficiency of the adrenal glands. Or something.

In the meantime, while I’m waiting to be tested, I do what any normal, self-respecting, rational adult would do: I Google the illness for all the gory details and I PANIC!

This is the conversation that played out in my head last night – two voices – one for Rational Tiny and one for Completely-Neurotic-Oh-My-God-I’m-Going-To-Die Tiny:

‘Oh-my-God! It’s a lifelong disease. I’ll have to be treated for life!’

‘It’s rare. You probably don’t even have it.’

‘Oh-my-God! But I might! And Google says it’s a chronic disease! Oh-my-God! I might have a chronic disease!’

‘Calm down. Chronic just means long-term. You already know it’s a long-term problem.’

‘Oh-my-God! It’s serious! Your body can go into shock! And a coma! And you can die! Oh-my-God! I’m going to die! I’m going to die!’

‘We’re all gonna die, love. Just not tonight. Now, get a grip!’

‘Oh-my-God! I’m going to die! I’m going to die and I haven’t written a will!’

‘For fuck’s sake! You’ve got nothing to leave! And you are not going to die tonight!’

‘Oh-my-God! I feel really ill now…I’m having palpitations! Oh-my-God! I’m having a heart attack! I’m having a heart attack and I’m gonna go into shock. Oh-my-God! I’m going into shock! I’m gonna end up in coma! After the coma, it’s death! Oh-my-God! I’m going in to a coma and then I’m gonna die!’

‘You’re having a fucking panic attack, you muppet!’

‘Oh-my-God! This disease can be a secondary problem to AIDS. Oh-my-God! I might have AIDS! Oh-my-God, my children! I might have given my children AIDS! Oh-my-God! We’re all gonna die!’

‘You’re really getting on my tits, now! Shut up, for God’s sake! You’re panicking, that’s all! Now, breathe, and just wait for the doctor to make a decision.’

‘But, oh-my-God! I might -‘

‘Shut up! I mean it!’

‘But, oh-‘

‘Shut the fuck up! Now! Or I swear to God I’ll slap you!’

‘Oh-my-God! You can’t slap me! I might go into shock and then lapse into a coma and then I might die!’

‘You’re right! You are going to die! Any minute now, you are going to die! Because I’m just about to fucking well stab you!’

Welcome to my world.