Ow! Ow! Owwwwww!

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!

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‘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!’

‘Oh! Oh!’

‘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…’

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 ‘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?’

‘For depression.’

‘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!

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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…

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.