I can’t work out anymore whether I’ve taken too much on and therefore this state of being is my fault... or whether the fates have conspired to make things overwhelming.
Between working around 60 hours a week, fronting up to the NHS, volunteering at various establishments around York, trying to have some semblance of social life (I have actually been in a public house this week, albeit to organise a work-related event, but I was still In A Pub with other people. I mostly talked about work, but y’know, you have to start somewhere), and now trying to get my case taken on by a private endometrial specialist I am actually completely finished mentally.
I was on the phone just now to Nuffield Health, the private hospitals to try and work out who I should see, where and when. It’s proving almost as tricky as communicating with the NHS. I thought that if you were willing to hand over cash then things changed. But apparently the Leeds Nuffield only has one member of staff dealing with appointments and he’s ‘not answering the phone at the moment’.
So, in a nutty fucking nutshell I have got to formulate a formal complaint against the NHS consultant who has admitted that she ‘made assumptions about my condition’ and ‘thought that it was most likely the case that your symptoms are like this’, when actually the symptoms she was talking about are things that I have never had and certainly never spoken to her about. This is the woman who has opened me up, by the way. Bear in mind that I have let this lunatic dig around inside me with knives. She told me that she didn’t perform the ablation that I was expecting because, and yes, I’m quoting: “I didn’t have time” and - wait for this one: “I didn’t have the tools I needed in surgery anyway”.
You... didn’t... have... the TOOLS? When you were going into someone’s womb to look at their endometriosis that you already knew they had, you just didn’t bother getting the right tools ready? ARE YOU EVEN A FUCKING DOCTOR?
In the meantime I’m trying to find five minutes a week to write my book - which is obviously the thing that I actually want to do - but is proving continually knocked down my list of priorities which apparently remain as work, work, work, pass out, work, work, work, cry, work, cry, pass out, work.
And yes I KNOW people have it harder. I know that. And my work at least doesn’t involve going down the mines or cleaning chimneys but it does involve writing around 4,000 words a day, for which I need brain cells that can actually think straight.
I just sat down and cried on the phone to the Nuffield Hospital person who told me that Leeds Hospital guy isn’t answering the phone. She was nice to me. And that made me cry a bit harder. Last night an advert for dog food came on and I cried at that. An old university friend announced his engagement on Facebook and I cried at that. He looks so happy. And that’s so nice. And the fact that nice and good and happy things are going on for people I know, even from years ago, is lovely.
Legit reasons to cry maybe. But I also just cried because I dropped my phone and the battery fell out. So I think what I might be is thoroughly overwhelmed. And because the bus was late. And because I couldn't find my cigarettes.
I think my brain has rebelled and turned me into a gibbering wreck.