In which we are not poked in the tchotchke. Damn

I have been off sulking for a week, with a bad cold. Very boring. Really. Shocking tedium.

Anyway, today I went back to Doctor Tashless to get my blood test results and for a quick internal examination. I did not get the internal – Doctor Tashless said, and I quote, ‘Mumble mumble chaperone mumble,’ which I am liberally interpreting as there being no nurses available to stand about looking bored and thereby ensuring that neither Dr nor myself are too pleased and/ or traumatised by any undercarriage exploring. So now I have to faff about with the arcana of the local surgery’s dimwitted booking system to see if I can get an appointment at a time when I will actually be able to attend said appointment to let yet another person, preferably female (because females can chaperone themselves, it would seem) stick two fingers up my bestest and wiggle them around. Not that I’ve been all up-tight and grumpy all week about having to go and let Dr T do it, oh no. And to think I was planning on spending this very moment right now drinking gin in a ‘thank God that’s over’ kind of way.

Blood tests. Damn their collective hides, and damn me or going into clueless mode and just sitting there and nodding and only twenty minutes later suddenly thinking of all the things I ought to have asked, and I hadn’t planned a list of things to ask in advance because like the doughnut I am I assumed the whole point of getting test results was to have information. Anyway:

– Testosterone – elevated. No shit, Sherlock, she said, smoothing her Errol Flyn and wondering whether to go the whole hog and grow an Abraham Lincoln to match.
– Sex Hormone Binding Globulin – err, something. Dr T tried to explain to me how it worked and went into a waffle about testosterone having to take a bus rather than walking. I assume it is low, as the testosterone was high, but, and this pisses me off, after Dr T’s bus theory of blood chemistry (which I did not need, on account of being mad keen on doing my own research), I still don’t know. But something Not Right.
– Thyroid – normal. HAH. Especially as not-right SHBG is associated with thyroid disorders. And my BBT is over a degree (centigrade) lower than just about everyone else’s. I assume I need that complicated test for not thyroxin but whatever-that-hormone-is-called that stimulates the thyroid to produce thyroxin. Must make fuss about this at some point.
– LH/ FSH – I have no idea. Dr T showed me the computer screen. I am short-sighted. I could not read it. As I peered at it, Dr T moved onto my testosterone and public transport for hormones and, not unnaturally, I got distracted. Damn. Damn damn damn. I will see if I can get hold of my results to have and to hold in my own hot little hand, and then I can Look Things Up and see if I can make any sense of it. Or not. I don’t even know if Dr T thinks they are OK or not. Arse.
– Blood-count/ anaemia – fine. This is the moment in which I am vaguely glad that I am not nearly sentimental enough to have become a vegetarian. All that drained exhaustion? Meh. Cold on the way, sleeping badly, emotionally frazzled, I suppose.

Bewildered. That’s me. World’s most rubbish patient. And a grand demonstration of why I actually do want my husband to come along. He might actually remember what it is we wanted to know and rescue me when I am sitting there nodding and smiling like a carnival queen on diazepam.

Dr T prepared me a referral to a gynaecologist at The Big Teaching Hospital Down The Road. Which is probably a good thing, and may well lead on to me actually knowing one day what exactly is up with my SHBG and LH and FSH. I still think I need a reproductive endocrinologist, but Dr T assures me that I need to see the gynae first. NHS bureaucratic to the point of WTF. But this is progress and therefore a Good Thing.

And then Dr T went into confidential mode and broached the subject of – oh terrors! – a Sperm Analysis! All concern that my husband might find ‘this kind of thing difficult’ and be reluctant to consider it. Oh really. Wanking into a cup in the privacy of your own home is difficult, and going to a building full of sick people so a stranger can stick two cold gloved and slimy fingers in is not? Men sometimes amaze me. Men sometimes amaze my husband, who was perfectly chirpy and collected about the idea, said it was sensible to get it done, and seemed vaguely disappointed that he could do it at home rather than investigate the BTHDtR’s wank studio and porn collection. After all, I had been reading him trés amusing anecdotes on the subject from other people’s blogs. So, he must go and make his own appointment with the GP surgery so the Mills of NHS can grind him out an hour and a day and a set of instructions and a cup. With a lid.

And finally Dr T asked me if I wanted to take Metformin. And there I had been thinking NHS GPs regarded treating PCOS with Met as heresy. I said I would need to think about that one. And I do need time to think about that one. On the one hand, yumminy scrumminy side-effects of wind, belly-cramps, nausea, headaches and diarrhoea. And it might not work. On the other, it really does work for quite a few people, making them slimmer and encouraging normal hormones and ovulation (and I am sick of being a lard-arse). So, I am Thinking About It for a couple of weeks.

The husband (still no nick-name, especially after we decided that ‘Nuts’, while amusing, was just a tad too obscene) and I will be going on holiday for a week, leaving tomorrow. I want very much indeed to Not Think About It during said holiday. I have to get my head round being taken seriously and offered treatment and therefore having to take it all seriously myself, and I have spent the afternoon so far feeling sorry for myself. I’m so used to being told all I need to do is lose weight and maybe take up meditation and have a colonic irrigation in a wood in Germany (indeed. My mother’s idea, bless her), it’s almost horrible to be told that I am actually broken and need fixing. I thought it would be a relief to have a doctor find a real thing wrong and deal with it. I blind-side myself once more.

Bugger it all. I’m going on holiday. I’m going to drink alcohol and coffee and eat blue steak and paté and have sex for fun and only for fun.

So there.

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