First wrong thing – the British weather at the moment. It seems to have been raining every day for a month. Whole towns and villages are underwater, and the clean-up from the floods will cost up to a billion pounds. Luckily the floods were mostly caused by drainage being totally unable to deal with all the rain, rather than burst dykes and banks, so they rose slowly and most people managed to get to safety. Only four people have died so far- not that they were ‘only’ to their loved ones. It is raining again, hard, as I write this. Every single weed, tree, lawn, and shrub is in green glorious overdrive. There is a woolly blanket on the bed, as well as the duvet. This time last year H and I spent the nights lying stark naked on the bed, no covers, the fan on and the windows open, cursing the heat and the mosquitoes, as London parks and gardens turned to dust all around us. Al Gore! Save us! Or at least, help me build a raft.
Second wrong thing – the bomb scares. Or rather, people versus the bomb-scares. Yes, OK, so there were three (very unsuccessful) car-bomb attacks, two on central London, one (rather spectacular) one on Glasgow airport. The attackers only succeeded in hurting themselves. And yet a minority of my acquaintances are howling as if their entire lives were personally being spitefully ruined by an international conspiracy, and if anyone dares to not take it quite as seriously and hysterically as they, accuse the Voice of Moderation of being pro-terrorism. Which is libellous, let alone a fucking stupid thing to say. In Basra they live like this every damn day, civilians and soldiers both, and people really do die. You know what? Britain is one of the safest nations on earth. And even if it weren’t, I don’t see why we have to descend to virulent grand-standing and ad hominem attacks.
And against all that, my own concerns seem very small potatoes indeed. And I don’t even like potatoes. Nevertheless, this is my blog, and I whine here to prevent me whining out there. So my own private wrong things are as follows:
The GP, Doc Tashless, bless his rotund face, was available for consultation this afternoon. First, we discussed my heart-burn. He was quite cross that the PPIs failed to cure it – they ought to have, you see. He was also seemingly a little annoyed that I’ve been dealing with heart-burn for years and yet none of his colleagues have thought to test me for H. pylori. Come to think of it, I’m a little surprised myself. My poor Dad had a duodenal ulcer for years before the medical profession twigged that it was caused by a beastly bacterium and not, after all, stress. If my Dad had it, why on earth shouldn’t I? Except my Dad weighs about three ounces in his socks and looks like a man having his intestine eaten by bacteria. I am a lard-arse, therefore everything that hurts me is caused directly by the size of my arse. Good Lord, but I’m glad Doc Tashless is tubby. It actually occurs to him to check if anything else might be the cause. And so I go back to the gentlest phlebotomist in London tomorrow morning so they can do serology on a vial of my increasingly rare and precious blood – at what point to I get to keep any for myself, by the way? And more PPIs, to keep me happy in the mean-time.
And then we discussed my elevated insulin level. Doc T agreed that it was, indeed, elevated, and that I did, indeed, resist insulin with all the strength of my little clenched cells. And then he spent what was clearly several very happy minutes on some form of specialised Google for Doctors exploring clinical uses of Metformin. It is not commonly given in the UK for PCOS, apparantly. They tend to keep it for full-blown Type II Diabetes. On the other hand, there were my blood-test results, which intrigued him mightily. So he decided he would prescribe it, but monitor me very closely, and refer me to an endocrinologist to make sure it’s the right thing for me.
I did manage to restrain myself from screaming ‘About fucking time!’, you’ll be pleased to hear. Also, from making vigorous but rude gestures in the direction of the hospital containing the gynaecologist who told me to lose weight instead.
I don’t really want to take Metformin. But at this point I really don’t know what else I can do. I am losing weight excruciatingly slowly, and even having lost nearly 10% of my bodyweight since being told to, nothing has improved. I’m still tired, I still bleed like a stuck pig if I don’t take my little pills, I still don’t ovulate, I still get heart-burn, I clearly can’t keep my insulin in order, and, dammit, I’m still fat. And the medical profession goads you by telling you that losing as little as 5% of your body-weight will improve ovulation and hormonal balance. And every time I point out that I had a lot of these symptoms when I weighed 70 lbs less than I do now, their ears fold frantically shut in case they actually hear something that challenges their smug skinny ‘received wisdom’ assvice.
Except for medical care you pay through the nose for. And Doc Tashless, of course. Who is cheerfully treating ‘me on Metformin’ as a science experiment, ie, he’s letting me have it because he wants to find out what happens if I do take it.
As for the homeopathic medicines, I have no idea if they are helping or not. The first couple of days I took them, I had what I can only assume was a classic ‘homeopathic aggravation’, in that I had such continuous cramps I was utterly bewildered by the spot-less-ness of my knickers. I do not know what sort of improvement I am supposed to see when, for that matter. Who can tell while I am still on the pill, in any case. It’s like playing poker in the dark with blank cards against an opponent with his head in a bucket. I have no idea if anything I’m doing is actually doing anything.
While I was queueing at the doctors, a small person in pig-tails put her hand on my bottom and said ‘Mummy?’. I gave her the shock of her life when I turned round and was absolutely not her mummy. Mummy was standing in front of me, wearing the same trousers and denim jacket combo (my word, is that what I look like from the back?).
Oh, God, for someone to say ‘Mummy’ in that trusting, happy little voice, and really mean me.