On Saturday, the Beloved Computer lay down on the floor and swooned for, oh, a good few hours, while H knelt over her and chafed her wrists and applied smelling-salts to her air-vents. So on Saturday, I spoke to no one at all on the Internets. In fact, after H had restored Beloved Computer to a certain consciousness and we decided she was for the moment out of danger, I decided, having been panicked by the swoon, that now was a good time to get that lap-top I had been hankering after and saving up for for over a year.
So we went into town and bought the Most Beautiful Laptop in the World. Just like that. Spending all that money on myself very nearly gave me a nervous breakdown (did I ever mention my mother’s side of the family are Catholics? Well, this is their fault), especially after spending so much of my mother’s money on private alternative doctor appointments (which is also her fault. It was her idea. I… just feel bad about it anyway). But I’d had a Week – not exactly a bad week, but a week of prolonged emotional doollallery, and sometimes something shiny is the way to go. Especially if it turns your husband into your Number One Fan because you’re going to let him have his own account on the Laptop too.
As for the week, well, it mostly involved realising my upper lip was not nearly so starched as I had hoped.
Since my appointment on Tuesday, Dr Alternative’s clinic has sent me my (largely incomprehensible) blood-test results, and a large box full of herbal and homeopathic medications. And the nurse also telephoned me to warn me that my Insulin levels were unusually high (my glucose levels were normal). So. I definitely am Insulin resistant. And therefore at risk of strokes, heart attacks, breast cancer, full-blown diabetes, fatty degeneration of the liver, skin-tags, arteriosclerosis, acanthosis nigricans, and general lardy-arsed hell and damnation.
I find this out just in time for Cake Day.
So, of course, I spent Sunday afternoon making chocolate ice-cream.
I will now proceed to take my herbs and tinctures exactly as directed. On my follow-up appointment in a few weeks’ time I will get Dr Alternative’s opinion on Metformin. And at some point I will go back to my GP just for the satisfaction of showing him my blood test results and then asking him, very sweetly, why every GP I ever spoke to about this has always brushed me off and never really been interested in testing insulin and glucose.
On Thursday afternoon I was perfectly calm and happy. I even watched about half-a-dozen pregnant ladies walk down the street together, chattering happily (there’s a hospital round the corner – childbirth class?). And I thought they were beautiful, like a fleet of little ships in full sail. The evening was sunny, the trees in the park were green and full of birdsong. I felt strong, and as if I could cope with anything. Things were tough, and sad, yes, but I could take it.
And then I went home, screamed at my husband for no reason at all, and cried my eyes out.
Funnily enough, so far I have been being (according to H, at least) unusually calm and rational about my situation. My reasoning was as follows: Crying won’t change anything, and anyway, worse things happen at sea, and in any case, it’s not like you want everyone at work to know you’re a wreck, or why, and H is already doing nearly all the washing-up and cooking because you’re SO damn feeble, so why on earth do you need to cry? And I stiffened my (fuzzy, and now spotty, dammit to hell) upper lip and got on with being feeble. Honesty compels me to add, and tetchy.
The crying, once I’d got past the irrational-yelling-at-husband bit, went something like this: ‘Why does nobody ever listen to me? My entire life has been ruined because doctors don’t listen to me. I shouldn’t have to pay to get doctors to listen to me. I pay my damn National Insurance, don’t I? I said I had something more than PCOS, and I was right. I said I didn’t think I should wait a year ‘trying’ by myself, as I was worried my health would get worse, and I was right. I said the constant bleeding thing was not just hormonal, and frankly a big problem. I said I was worried about Insulin Resistance, and wanted to be tested for it. I was right. The doctors were wrong. ARGH.’ And so on at length, somewhat incoherently, and in a muffled fashion as I had flung myself on the bed by this point and was sobbing dramatically into the pillows.
Ah well. It is entirely possible that whenever I enter a doctor’s office the iatrogenically induced high blood pressure interferes with my ability to speak or to remember that I did not, in fact, say ‘test my insulin’ and did instead say ‘whatever, like, whatever, I dunno, stuff, thing – ooh look, squirrels!’