After what seemed like a million years I found out this afternoon I have a lovely healthy brain. It’s the right shape, size and weight and there is no evidence of vascular damage and it couldn’t be in better condition.
This brings up more questions than answers in a way about the symptoms I’ve been experiencing and things aren’t signed off until the neurologist gets his pen out but he will, that much I do know.
Then it’s back to Eric who is an amazing psychiatrist to discuss whether we change my medication or we develop behavioural strategies (keep your mouth shut Sid, that kind of thing) and maybe a little bit of therapy. I haven’t been theraped for a while so it could be interesting.
My teeth still haven’t been sorted out (the saga has now entered its third year) and I’m fed up of the pain and biting the inside of my cheek. To dream of losing teeth is said to be about anxiety but I dream with a longing that is bottomless.
Anyway, I got in touch with PALS yesterday and they put rockets up backsides and an administrator called me half an hour ago. Who calls people at ten to five on a Friday to blame them for something that wasn’t there responsibility. I am telling you now that the main qualification that the hospital trust looks for in its administrators is surliness. If you don’t have an A level in surliness and at least a B in truculence then you don’t get a job.
I was angry and she knows it. She knows also that though she hears words she doesn’t listen to what they are and that I won’t stand for it. Beloved though the NHS is (and I’d be dead without it) its employees aren’t gods and they shouldn’t behave as though they are. If you feel so powerless that you have to hide behind the power that you imagine your job has then you need help. Truly I do not mean that in a mean or destructive way, I mean that you really need help to realise that you’re actually far better than you think you are.
Anyway, I’m going to have a nice weekend and wait for the return phone call on Monday. If it happens.