Monday, 31 December 2012

I love a good diagnosis, me

After a month or so teetering on the edge of sanity I've finally been to the doctors, where I have been redeemed with a diagnosis. It's chronic sinusitis. Not a breakdown. Not all in my head. Not crazy times. Just an illness. This makes me inordinately happy. 

It probably says a lot about my state of mind when I say I'm glad I'm ill. But days spent alone, trying to sleep, feeling too weird and off kilter to do anything or see anyone, have left me going a bit mental. A bit Yellow Wallpaper. If you don't know what that is, then Google it and read it, it's very, very good. Only difference is there's no man oppressing me. I do that all by myself. 

The other day I was so woozy and tired that I just couldn't keep my coffee cup straight so I just sat and watched as boiling water slid down my hand and into the crevices between my fingers, where it set up shop and scalded me. I now have angry, red marks all over my hand. 

Last night I was sent home from work for being sick. It wasn't the fact that it was Craig Charles' Funk & Soul night that did it, honest. I swear that man follows me round the country. During the short time I was at work I found it increasingly difficult to do anything without heaving, to add up, give the correct change or pour a good pint. I was, in short, a liability. I also semi convinced myself that the rash on my arm is meningitis. 

It isn't. 

I have been weepy and thick headed, unable to concentrate, plagued by nose bleeds and headaches. I mean, you would think that's most likely a brain tumour wouldn't you? If your only company is a demanding fat cat and the internet, that is. 

Sleep has been massively elusive and fun in short supply. Apart from a lovely day with my friends on Christmas Day, this festive period has been decidedly un-ho-ho-ho. I could count the hos on the fingers of one hand. 

Bit like at work. 

When I do sleep I'm plagued by recurrent nightmares. Not of the kind where it's sort of like a horror film and actually quite cool, with anonymous enemies. But of the kind where people I love are horrific to me in various ways over and over again. I wake with a thick head, a slim grasp of reality and start to colour people with what they've done my dreams. 

See why I'm pleased it's just sinusitis? 

A short trip to the chemist, I'm £30 down (three lots of drugs you see. I briefly got very pissed off that I had to pay that and then I was just grateful I don't live in the US where I wouldn't be able to afford to see a doctor at all), and filled with hope that, after a short course of antibiotics and with the help of steroids, I'll be able to make January my party month. 

I'm also much clearer as to why the NHS is on its knees. An extremely obese pensioner was in front of me collecting a veritable sack full of drugs. I mean, I thought I was bad with my monthly happy pills, but this was something else. They went through the list of repeat prescriptions to see what she wanted next month. I counted 25 items. She didn't even know what any of them were for. From ear wigging I definitely heard high cholesterol and diabetes medication. I really don't want to come across all Thatcher here, but for fuck's sake. Losing a few stone would most likely take care of those for her and she'd be on fewer drugs. Which is good for everyone, surely? 

Assume half the population grasp drug after drug with a greedy hand (I remember my hellish grandma had a cupboard full of proper hardcore medications that she never used but wanted to stockpile. Thousands of pounds worth ended up being thrown away regularly) then no wonder the whole system is fucked to the core and a lot of people aren't given the help they need. 

For once I was glad to have paid for mine.  


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