I try not to go to the Dr. very often, despite the fact that we all know that I am a Victorian consumptive heroine, lingering on the Chaise Longue of Death (TM) and that I was just born out of my time.
I am not very good at the whole GP thing. I get mulish and stubborn and difficult. Even though I rarely drink and don’t smoke at all, when I get that ‘how many units of alcohol do you drink?’ question it makes me want to pull a half empty bottle of gin out of my handbag, take a massive swig and wipe my mouth on my sleeve before belching alcohol fumes as my answer…
…shortly before lighting a massive Groucho Marx cigar, pulling my trousers down, mooning and running away.
I find the whole experience traumatic, no matter what I go for. There’s the resisting the urge to misbehave, or self destruct or implode, or hide under the desk whimpering, or answer every question with the utterly British answer: ‘I’m fine. I don’t know why I’m here really’ whilst looking out the window and whistling, even though I’m the one who booked the appointment in the first place.
Then there’s the revealing why you’re actually there, which I usually do in a grudging manner as if it’s an affront to my personal dignity, which given the nature of post childbirth related health issues for me, it often is.
You will understand therefore, that when not compelled to show everyone in the LE2 postcode my uterus, I tend to only visit the Dr. once or twice a year if my head is actually falling off and the No Nails I bought from Homebase isn’t really cutting it.
Given the fact that the potential radioactive spider bite on my arm hadn’t really healed up, and I am still not manifesting any superhero qualities I thought I’d better go. While I was there, I reasoned, I could talk to him about the spectre of my uterus at the feast, and my migraines and basically any other thing that I wake up thinking I’m probably dying of at about three in the morning when my brain has let go of all the other worries but is still chomping at the bit for something exciting to get paranoid about.
So I headed off to the Dr. today for my biannual whinge.
Firstly it turns out that I am most definitely not turning into a super hero. To say I was disappointed by this news is the understatement of the year, frankly. The lump is some kind of fat based deposit. He used the Latin term, but I’ve read books. I know things. I know that when you take away the pretty language that means I’ve got free roaming lard in my arm. Silty lard deposits of the elbow.
And yet slightly humiliating, rather gross and not even remotely dangerous. No romance. Just lumpy arms.
If I die of lumpy arms, they’ll all be sorry.
The rogue uterus can be tamed with the coil, or a progesterone thing in my arm. They wheel these choices out twice a year as if they are pulling rabbits out of a hat for my delectation and delight. It matters not that it is on record that I do not do well on doses of hormones and that I am contra indicated for the progesterone coil.
The one piece of positive news is that they will no longer keep trying to force me to take the pill, because apparently I am now too old.
Which is nice.
The migraines. Ah, the migraines. I cannot have the triptans I had two years ago because cost cutting exercises are in place. I used to have sub lingual melts which are great if, like me, you are a spectacularly vomity person. Now I have to have anti-emetics and a non melting variety. This could go hideously wrong, but apparently, until it does: ‘Computer Says No.’ My only other option is to take daily beta blockers, which I do not want, and which we have discussed before in much the same way as: ‘the coil might be an option for you. Oh, no. It isn’t. Right.’
After this he gave me a brief lecture on triggers of migraines, because despite the fact that I have a medical history with migraine as long as my arm it appears I might not be aware that chocolate and wine might trigger them.
I was beginning to get somewhat irritated, so it was natural that at this point he decided to take my blood pressure. It was, unsurprisingly quite high. He now wants me to come back for more blood pressure tests, which will also be high because I hate doctor’s surgeries and having my blood pressure tested. He is already making noises about 24 hour monitoring and blood pressure medication.
It was at this point I lit my cigar, dropped my trousers and ran.
Metaphorically, unfortunately, but one day I’m totally going to do it for real.