The Great Facebook Debate

The Ex and I have an ongoing argument about social networking. He says things like, ‘Facebook has ruined the art of conversation’, or ‘People should keep in contact by phone. I mean, how can you tell if a person’s really okay if you can’t hear their voice?’

I say stuff like, ‘What about the disabled or sick who rely on sites like Twitter or Facebook for keeping in touch with people they might otherwise never see,’ or ‘I’ve made loads of friends through these sites, that I would never have ‘met’ through conventional channels’.  And it gives members of my family the perfect platform for verbal abuse. Who am I deny such perfect vehicles for vitriolic communications?

Image via Wikipedia

On Saturday evening The Ex and I were re-hashing the same old argument. It went something like this:

The Ex: ‘So, have you heard from Eldest Son since he’s back at uni?’

Me: ‘No, but I know he’s fine ‘cos I’ve seen his comments on Facebook.’  Too late, I realised my mistake and tried desperately to suck those flammable words back inside my treacherous mouth, but the little bastards refused to be contained: like mischievous toddlers escaped from the playpen, they were free and out to cause chaos.

The Ex, spluttering: ‘What d’you mean, you’ve seen his comments on Facebook – you can’t tell anything from those; he could’ve been writing those status updates from the Bristol Royal Infirmary – with one finger because  the rest of him was in a body cast!’

Image via Wikipedia

Me: ‘Had that been the case I’m sure he would’ve posted that on Facebook. In fact he would’ve exaggerated it to wind me up by saying  a cute nurse was typing because he’d lost all his fingers.’

The Ex: ‘You’re missing the point. You can’t tell from the written word whether he’s happy or stressed or hanging from a noose in his flat!’

Me (smugly): ‘I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to reach his laptop if he were hanging from the rafters. And I’m also confident that he would phone me if there were a problem.’

The Ex: ‘Aaah, but you don’t know for sure. I’m surprised you haven’t phoned him.’

Me: ‘I’m trying not to Mom all over him.’

The Ex: ‘Even so, he should have rung you.’

Me: ‘It’s only been a week! I’m sure he’s fine, just busy catching up with mates and stuff. And we don’t normally communicate much at the beginning of term. It’s more in the last few weeks when he’s starting to run out of money. Or when I get concerned about his bowels, and have to ring and ask, “Have you eaten any vegetables this term, son? I know, I’ll send you some money – you can buy frozen peas. Peas are easy, peas are good for you. I like peas.” ‘

Image via Wikipedia

 And peas have a social conscience.

The conversation burbled along, and as soon as I put the phone down, it rang again.

Eldest Son: ‘Hi Mum, gotta problem. Well, not so much of a problem, more of a query. Do I put the lid on the casserole dish for pasta bake, or leave it uncovered?’

Ha! I was right! But, just to be on the safe side, I slipped in a few subtle questions: ‘So…. ummm… where are you at the moment?’

Eldest Son: ‘Well, where do you think I am? I’ll give you a clue: I’m trying to put my tea in the oven, if only someone would tell me whether it needs a lid or not.’

Me: ‘Yes! Put a lid on for the first twenty minutes, then grate some cheese and leave uncovered for the cheese to brown. Now, where are you?’

Eldest Son: ‘I’M IN THE FLAT, OBVIOUSLY!’

Okay, so I can cross the hospital off the list. I know the NHS are making cut-backs, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have the patients making their own dinner. Especially ones wearing an all-over body plaster cast. Now I just need to make sure he isn’t suicidal: ‘Now, where exactly are your feet?’

Eldest Son: ‘Same place they’ve always been, mother. On the end of my legs.’

Me, sighing: ‘Yes, but where exactly are they in relation to, say – the floor, or the … umm… ceiling?’

Eldest Son: ‘Have they put you on wacky drugs or something?’

Me: ‘No. I’ve just been talking to your father.’

Eldest Son: ‘Oh, right. That explains it, then.’

Image via Wikipedia

So, my question to you is this: Are social networking sites the work of the Devil? Are they causing a breakdown in communications? Are we being too lazy by relying on sites like Facebook or Twitter to keep us in touch? Or, do you think that they add to the whole communication process? Do they play a valuable role in keeping us connected to both people we love and the outside world?

I would love to hear your comments. Please, add your opinion to this ongoing, never-ending debate of ours!

Sexy Pink Pyjamas and a Happy Dance

Hellooooo, world, I’m here! *Waits for the cheers to subside and then does a Happy Dance* Well, it’s more of a slow shuffle, but you get the idea.

Image via Wikipedia

How are you, peeps? What’s been happening in the Wonderful World of Blogging? I’ve missed you! But I so needed to take a break and then I kind of got out of the habit. I will do better. I will do better. I will.

Let me bring you up to date: I’m loads better and have a new job. Now, don’t get too excited; I’ve not joined a team about to find a cure for cancer. I’m not running for parliament, and I’m still not Jason Statham’s salaried sex-slave. (Yet. But I remain optimistic; I just need to work off all those Christmas mince pies and Quality Street chocolates that cling stubbornly to my lardy arse and I’ll be ready for a wild, animalistic, hotel-room trashing, chandelier swinging romp a grown-up, deep and meaningful relationship.)

Image via Wikipedia

Anyway, my new job… I’m now a Housekeeper at a small holiday lettings company. It’s about 12-16 hours a week and I can pretty much keep my own hours as long as I’m there for Friday changeovers. I just hope I can keep it up during the summer when I’ve got twenty cleaners and thirty cottages to manage on one day! At the moment I’m just happy to be well enough to work. This time last year I could barely get off the sofa and had to crawl upstairs for a pee.

C0mpletely random, but here’s our dog:

He’s not new, in fact in doggy years  the silly sod is now entering middle-age, but he still thinks he’s a puppy. Poor thing, he’s always had Special Needs. He’s called Deefor, as in A for Apple, B for Ball, D for Dog, but we just tend to call him The Dog With No Brain. Bless!

And then, there’s the new hat I bought myself, ready for the predicted mini Ice-Age. It’s January and it’s been the mildest winter on record, but hey! There’s still time for the snow.  I proudly present Youngest Son modelling Tiny’s New Furry Hat, comeplete with built-in ear-flaps and nipple-warmers:

That's my boy!

Ummm, what else? Oh, I know! I had some pretty cool pyjamas for Christmas. I’m tempted to post a photo, but I’m not sure I should. I mean, they are pretty sex-kittenish. I wouldn’t want any of you getting over-excited and drooling over your keyboard…

Hey, I know – we’ll compromise – I’ll post the picture if you go and grab a paper bag. That way, should you be so sexually aroused that you start hyperventiliating, you’ll have a handy bag to breathe into. And it also doubles quite nicely as a sick-bag.

Okay, here I come, but remember I did try to warn you…

Take me, Jason. I'm yours!

How cool? And they’re not just fleecy, they’re soft and  furry! Furry, I tell you! Like a silky pink cat. I put these on in the evening and can’t resist giving myself a little stroke, and out of my mouth pops a perfect purrrrrr.

And they’re even printed with a little message:

Purrrrr!

Are they not THE perfect present for me? Pink, furry jammies, Eeyore slippers and a snooze on the sofa. Could my life be more complete?

Actually, there is one thing missing: a man. And not just any man – oh, you so know where this is going… The Christmas Fairies gave me a four-film JS DVD set. Actually, I probably shouldn’t call my two 6 foot sons fairies, should I? Anyway, that’s 7 hours of back-to-back, action-packed Jason. Just think if it were front-to-front  – oh, be still, my twitching knickers…

My favourite one in the box has to be Chaos, where he plays a maverick detective trying to solve a bank robbery where nothing was actually stolen. He’s a gorgeous, walking sex-machine at the best of times, but in this he wears a bullet-proof vest and he’s just Phwoarrr!

Ooh, and here’s another mean ‘n’ moody one:

And the last one:

Who’d have thought a woolly hat could be so sexy?

Now, normally I’m careful about the images I use, making sure they’re copyright free, and linking back to the owner, but this time, I’ve just posted. My next update could well be from sent from prison, but I’d be proud to say I went down for Jason.  😉

How I Spent My Holiday…

See what happens when you have a major meltdown and take some time away from your blog – the bastards go and change it all! I’ve spent twenty minutes just finding the New Post button. If this post ever goes live, it’ll be a bleeding miracle…

Okay, so it’s safe to say the past year hasn’t been one of my finest. In fact it’s been pants. I’ve veered away from Funny Internet Dating and blundered into Whiney Doctors-Really-Get-On-My-Tits territory, but hey! I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I still have a stupid sense of humour. Life is just great.

In the last six months I’ve experienced just about every emotion known to man – well, to woman, because we all know that blokes don’t have emotions. Except maybe joy when Arsenal score a goal. Or envy when they spot someone with a bigger willy. But my mind’s wandering again…

I guess it’s normal to go through an angry stage when you’ve just been landed with a life-altering illness. I think I’ve come out the other side, but who knows. Maybe morphing into a pre-menstrual monster is something I’ll do regularly from now on. Mind you, if you spoke to The Ex, he’d say I’ve always been one…

Aaaaaarrrggghhh!

But enough of my madness, I really wanted to share all the things I’ve learned or discovered in the last six months, things that may help you if you’re ever find yourself laid up on the sofa with a horrible illness:

• Wearing pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers outside of the house,  at any point during the day, will elicit strange looks and laughter. Really, what’s the problem here, people? I’m talking fleecy jammies, a towelling robe and – well, you’ve seen the slippers. It’s not as if I’m parading through town in a Babydoll nightie or crotchless knickers and a peephole bra. And I usually slip a jumper over the top if I’m going shopping…

• Four days and three nights is the absolute maximum you can spend in the same set of clothes before you start gagging on your own stench. Three days is pushing it to be honest but, you can just about stretch to a fourth if you keep squirting yourself with air freshener. Although this masks your odour,  unfortunately  it does absolutely nothing to keep the flies away.

• When a crop of cold sores break out on the end of your nose, you really do look like Rudolph. Yeah, I know he looks kinda cute, but believe me,  it’s not such a great look on a middle-aged woman in a clashing fuschia-pink dressing  gown.  I think it’s something to do with the way ME affects your immune system, but I seem to always have cold sores – on my nose, up my nose and around my eyes. And people are so rude; they stare and make grimacing faces as they step away from you in case it’s contagious. I’ve found the only way to deal with this situation is to step closer, as if you’re about to confide a delicious gossipy rumour, and say, ‘Yes, such a shame. I’m absolutely riddled with herpes.’
                                                                                                                        

• The body is a wonderfully skilled feat of genetic engineering. Until it goes wrong and then it’s about as effective as a man trying to find your G-Spot. Even I can’t believe how you cannot have the strength in your arm to lift a cup a tea or chop a poxy vegetable for dinner, or how, at the end of the day, you really do not have the energy to get undressed, and just collapse into bed, shaking with the effort of getting your fat arse upstairs. It is truly incredible, but it’s true! As evidence I should have kept a vlog of me looking like Rudolph in a tea-stained, fushcia-pink dressing gown and Eeyore slippers, crawling up the stairs to have a pee. Amazing.

• Underneath all that chemical dye, my hair is, in fact, white. I haven’t been able to dye my hair since Christmas last year because I just can’t keep my arms up long enough to do it. So I’m now sporting about eight inches of grey roots – Wrong! Underneath all that Auburn Sunset hair dye, my hair is pretty much all pure white. I don’t know whether it’s been this pale for a while or whether I’ve literally gone white overnight from the shock of not being able to reach my tea cup, but one thing’s for sure, if I ever manage to dye it again, the colourant is gonna react reallywell on white hair: Auburn Sunset is going to be more like flaming flourescent orange. It’s gonna cause a major clash with my dressing gown…

  

  Arrrggghhh!

• Chronic Fatigue or ME is ‘all in yer ‘ead, love!’ I don’t know if this is the same overseas, but in the UK, ME is very much an imaginary condition. In true British-Stiff-Upper-Lip fashion, we are often told, ‘Pull yourself together, chaps! A jolly good dose of psychotherapy and graded exercise routines will have soon have you back in the trenches!’ Despite the fact that 250,000 people in the UK suffer with this illness – a quarter of whom are pretty much bed-bound for decades of their life – our government spends less money each year researching the causes and possible treatments, than it spends on researching hay-fever. True, dat. And in the meantime we have no effective treatments or even the sniff of a cure. I won’t go on (too much) but it’s pretty much the only illness that evokes no sympathy or understanding from our society – and that includes the medical profession.

•  Twitter is God. Yeah, yeah, I know I’ve slagged it off in the past, but it’s been a real link to the outside world while I’ve been ill. I haven’t been able to spend more than about 20 minutes on the computer at a time, so I couldn’t keep up with my blog or your fabulous blogs and I was missing the company. Because the messages are so short I’ve been able to keep in touch with you wonderful peeps on Twitter. You  do find out who your friends are when you hit a crisis, and you lot have been stupendous (posh British word for awesome)     😀

Well, Bugger Me! Got Myself a Doggone Diagnosis…

Image by Luke Robinson via Flickr

It’s official: I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/M.E. I’m in shock and it’s mostly because of actually getting a diagnosis. It’s only taken 11 months. And seven years. Yeah, that was always depression as well… And I’ve already had a run-in with someone who thinks ME is just ‘Lazy Cow Syndrome’. Can’t wait for word to get around and the bitchy finger-pointing to start… God, I love my life! 🙂

Anyway, I have to see my GP on 4th July to discuss possible drug treatments and I’ve just been referred to an Occupational Therapist for – well, who knows, whatever it is that OT’s do.

On a brighter note, I’ve been doing some research for the book and I thought I’d share: niche dating sites. If golfing is a huge part of your life, for example, it stands to reason that you’d want to date a golfer. Why, then, trawl through hundreds of general profiles when  you could just join a golfing dating site?

And believe me, there’s a niche dating site out there dedicated to fulfilling all your needs, requirements or plain old kinky desires.

Ten Incredibly Specific Niche Sites:

1. Adopt a Guy ~ every girl loves shopping, right? Guys fill out their profiles and sit on the ‘shelves’ until a gorgeous girl comes along and pops him into her ‘shopping trolley’, and only then, is he allowed to spark up a conversation. Is this girl power or just girl power gone bonkers? Great for shy guys or female control freaks.

2. Date My Pet ~ in case you’re worried about the whole bestiality issue, this site just concentrates on matching mutual pet-lovers. I think. But then, couldn’t that cause potential problems? Suppose I met The One I Just Couldn’t Live Without and my dog and his cat hated each other. Or suppose my pussy just
gobbled up his pet mouse. What then? Would True Love conquer all? Or would we all end up in step-pet’s therapy?

3. Ugly Bug Ball ~ because beauty is all in the eye of the beholder (or the severely intoxicated), this is for the more aesthetically challenged amongst us… A site dedicated to purely ugly people. How liberating! You’d never need to shave your pits, ladies, or keep your acne under control. And if he ever complained, you could snarl, ‘I’m beautiful on the inside, remember?’

4. Trek Passions ~ for anyone with an interest in science-fiction – no, an obsession; you’d have to be besotted to want to spend your days discussing lien abduction and doing that strange Vulcan sign thing with your fingers. But, as they say on the site: Love Long and Prosper.

5. Pounced ~ this is the place for anyone who enjoys dressing up as an animal, and ouncing on an equally hairy mate – or ‘furry’ as they like to be called. Yeah, I know, but it takes all sorts. And can’t you just imagine the ads: Lonesome Rabbit in Need of New Hole. Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing Seeks Lamb for Breakfast.   Hairy Brown Bear Wants to Dip his Paws in your Honey. Randy Dog Needs  Somewhere Safe to Bury His Bone…

6. Positively Singles ~ are you hampered by Herpes? Scuppered by Syphilis? Clammed-up through Chlamydia? Or gummed up with Gonorrhoea? Do you worry you’ll  never find The One because you slept with way too many of The Others? Well,  help is here! You need never again fret about passing on your sexually transmitted disease to users on this site because they already have them! How cool is that?
A match made in Heaven…

7. Cougar Date ~ yep,  this one’s all about  young men dating older women. I can kind of see the attraction – a Toy-Boy’s going to be cuter and more virile than say, a fifty-year-old, bald and beer-bellied bloke, but c’mon,  some of these guys are eighteen. What on earth would you talk about? Lady Gaga? And where would you go on a date? Homework Club?

8. Instant Quickies ~ feeling horny? Do you fancy an instant, uncomplicated  shag? Well, look no further than the McDonald’s of dating sites – Instant  Quickies, the place where you can find and hook-up with a consenting mate for the night. (Or early afternoon if you have to be home to do the school-run.) And if you see someone you like and he suddenly disappears, don’t worry, he’ll be popping up again next week on Positively Singles.

9. Uniform Dating ~ ooh! If you fantasise about being rescued from a natural or a thug-made disaster by a hunky guy in uniform – and let’s be real: what woman with a pulse doesn’t? – then this is the site for you. Pages and pages of  testosterone-fuelled Alpha males. Oh, be still my twitching knickers.

10. Daily Diapers ~ okay. So here’s the thing – some people like wearing nappies. Yep. And rubber pants. And even babygros. They even like to soil themselves. And be bathed, dressed and fed liquified mush by their partners. It’s fun. Relaxing, apparently. If this appeals to you and you’re not quite sure where you’d find a like-minded playmate, log onto Daily Diapers and, er… go, poop!

Doesn’t it make you just wanna go and sign up?

Yeah, I know I promised… Sorry…

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?

Speechless. Completely Speechless…

Cover of Speechless

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or throw a tantrum; I went to the docs today, armed with my new book – marked to page 96 – and psyched up for a fight. I was resolved to use whatever weapon necessary to present my case – tears, mega-strops or staging a sit-in. And if I ended up on a psychiatric ward, then so be it. At least I’d get out of cooking dinner.

‘Hello, Tiny. How are you feeling today?’

‘Still breathing…’ I answered.

‘Well, I’ve just been re-reading your notes and looking at the test results and I think it’s time I made a Chronic Fatigue referral. How do you feel about that?’

Erm… Gobsmacked. Speechless. Confused.

‘Well, I know you’re the doctor, but I honestly don’t believe this is depression.’ Nope, that didn’t quite answer the question, but my brain had kind of reverted to Planned Speech mode.

‘No, I don’t think it is either.’

‘Huh? Huh?’

‘When any patient presents with fatigue, we always consider depression as primary diagnosis, especially when there’s previous history.’

And who made up that rule? Hitler?

I was honestly too shocked to say anything except a mumbled Thanks, as I left the surgery. It’s been ten months! Ten fucking months! I’ve been arguing with them for at least eight of those months. Unbelievable. Eldest son is home from uni in a fortnight: he’s got a third of a degree in that time! And I’ve got another two or three months’ wait for an appointment.

Speechless. Completely speechless.

* Sorry, guys. I’ve written this badly – I’m relieved about the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome referral; it means they’re taking me seriously. I just find it incredible that they’ve hammered on about depression since September and then, today my GP just casually says it isn’t. I’m glad, just amazed because I’ve been telling them is wasn’t depression for the last eight months! Talk about irony!  Oh, and I promise to write one non-medical-non-whiney post this week. I bet you’re as sick of my health as I am!!*

The Good, the Bad and the Metrosexual…

Good news: I’m still alive! Bad news: it’s been so long since I posted, I’ve forgotten how to write.

Thank-you all so much for your messages and comments. I hope to be back in action soon…

Latest test results all came back clear which is great because it means I don’t have tumours, diabetes or any of the other stuff that they were testing for. I’m not menopausal or vitamin B12 deficient, and I don’t have thyroid problems.

Trouble is: I’m no closer to a bleedin’ answer, and in some respects, I’m getting worse. I have to rest in between changing a double duvet cover. I can’t lift a 3 kilo bag of dog food. Last Friday night I slept for 18 hours out of 24 and then spent the rest of Saturday slobbing on the sofa because I literally couldn’t get up without the world spinning. And I seem to have developed an unhealthy obsession with Robert Pattinson.

Image via Wikipedia

 As you know, I like my fantasy men mean and meaty, not lean, clean and metrosexual, so I’m quite worried about this new symptom. Perhaps my brain has atrophied from lack of use. Or maybe it’s because I’m definitely not menopausal, maybe my unwithered eggs are screaming for last-chance impregnation and have fixated upon the young male of the species. I suspect it has more to do with the fact that, while prostrate on the sofa, I read the whole of Water for Elephants – in between snoozing, of course – and Master Pattinson adorns the front cover. In my poorly state, I seem to have got him confused with, well, a romantic hero. Scary.

I adore this book; it’s a beautiful love story set in a 1930’s circus. I could explain the plot, but I have Durr-brain, so I’ll make this easy and probably more entertaining:

Ahhh…

So where do I go from here? Apart from re-reading the old Twilight series, of course. Don’t judge me; I really can’t help these perfectly normal teenage obsessions, you know. In fact it’s not really an obsession at all until I start following him on Twitter, or plastering his juvenile mug across my pink bedroom walls. But where was I? Oh yeah, medical stuff. My GP has now decided that I have to wait a month for all medication to leave my system and then try another anti-depressant before she’ll refer me to a Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/ME clinic or whatever the hell it’s called this week.

I replied with a few choice sweary words and just thought Fuck it! I give up!  I’m wasting the bit of energy I have got, fighting doctors and it’s pointless. I may well not have Chronic Fatigue, but I certainly do have chronic fatigue, so I ordered a book, written by a CFS sufferer who also happens to be a GP.  And today it arrived, and there on page 96, it says CFS should never really be mistaken for depression because of the basic clinical differences between the two. And it lists ’em all! Yep! all the points I’ve been arguing since bloody September!

Hahaha! The bitch will be mine!

Well Looky Here…

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…

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.

Image via Wikipedia

‘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!

Image via Wikipedia

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! 

I Surrender…

Image via Wikipedia

It’s white-flag time, guys. I surrender. I’ve just crashed, hit the wall with this bloody un-specific, un-diagnosed illness and have to cut out all non-essentials until I’m feeling better. That – as you will probably have noticed – includes blog posts. I’ve got about twelve partially finished posts on the go – I couldn’t stay awake long enough to finish any of ’em.

I’ve got five chapters on my book written, awaiting a final draft before it can be sent off to agents, and a half-arsed pantomime plot that needs some serious input, and I can’t do any of it – there’s just no time after sleeping 16 hours a day! I’m going for the record full 24 hours, but not quite there, yet… I’ve got the endocrinologist appointment on Monday – if I don’t sleep through it – so hopefully, that’ll get the ball rolling towards some kind of answer.

I hope you’ll all still be around in a couple of weeks – Jeeze! – I hope I’m still around in a couple of weeks! But I’ll quite understand if you all piss off and find something more interesting to do 🙂

Love, light and happiness, my bloggy-buddies! X