Saturday, 13 July 2013

A New Hope

I have just awakened. It is 5.30am on a Saturday morning. I was woken by a dream involving me being a candidate on The Apprentice (yet another example of how my subconscious appears to truly hate me. Everyone knows that all candidates on The Apprentice are absolute cocknuggets). Anyway, I had just reappropriated Zammo's catchphrase from Grange Hill, "Just say no!" and turned it into "Just say yes!" when I became stressed and woke up.

This is all completely superfluous to this entry, but I had to get it out as it was bothering me. 

So now it is 5.42am on a Saturday morning and what with it being hot as Hades obviously I can't go back to sleep. So here we are. Hi. 

Having been treated rather like a disposable sanitary item by the NHS during this last jaunt of operation joy, I went to see a private consultant the other day. This involved travelling to somewhere between Halifax and Huddersfield, which was new and different. It also involved being made a sandwich specially by a lovely lady while I was waiting, because this is a private hospital where treating you as a human being happens automatically. 

Onwards. 

The consultant just happened to be absolutely gorgeous in an older man with intelligence way. I wasn't sure how I felt about this due to the nature of my illness. It's not the most attractive. But then I remembered that a) he's married and b) I was being mental and told him all. 

And then this happened. He offered me not one, but TWO treatment plans involving actual drugs and things that might help me. He said that he didn't want to operate on me unnecessarily (are you listening consultant at York Hospital? You're not MEANT to just open people up and then not do anything and close them up again so you can tick your fucking box) and that these treatments are worth trying first. 

These are treatments that my consultant at York could have given me at any time. You know, if she felt inclined. She didn't, obviously. She felt inclined to be a massive cunt. 

And then. 

And then he said: "You can continue to see me on the NHS you know."

So he transferred me from his private list to his NHS list and I will see him in three months after the treatment has had time to take effect (or not as the case may be). 

Hall-e-fucking-lujah. 

I'm not sure, but I think this is how it's meant to go. 

My faith in the NHS, although very very fragile, is slowly repairing. Amazing the difference one guy can make isn't it?

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