Life, as many wise people have ever-so-often remarked, isn’t fair. Of course, there’s no reason on earth why life should be, what with life being a complex biological process and in no way having any organ or other method for appreciating such human gibberish as Justice, Equality, Common Sense, etc. But anyway, being human and full of gibberish myself, occasionally it gets mightily on my wick.
For example, followers of this blog may have noticed that on Sunday evening I went down under the weight of 1 (one) uterus (bijou, several previous short-term tenants, unusual architecture, must be seen to be appreciated) having an internal (and external) haemorrhage and thereby rending itself in the gobberwarts, see if it doesn’t. I limped back into work on Wednesday, still in considerable discomfort, hoovering down pain-pills like Smarties, or rather, in the manner I’d like to eat Smarties given half a chance, only to find the office semi-deserted and those denizens still in residence lying about in various stages of malaise.
It bodes well, doesn’t it?
So, I, keeping in mind that I am trying not to double over or faint, to my intense astonishment find myself landed with extra shifts to cover for everyone else, while the people I’m supposed to be on shift with alternatively
- announce their sore throat is just too awful and go home early (to be fair, this may have been true),
- complain about the effects of nervous stress on their immune system while I do most of the heavy lifting,
- have hangovers,
- don’t want to do anything that would aggravate their wrist, which was sore last week after all,
- explain to me in great detail just how awful their headache is (I want brownie points for not pointing out that when I have my most awful headaches, I can’t actually speak at all),
- fail to turn up altogether.
Does the fact that I am pea-green and walking about like an L-square mean nothing to anybody? The frequent and prolonged trips to the Ladies with my bag, large and obvious as it is? The taking of many, many drugs? Anyone? Bueller?
Also, one day, I will take slightly too many pills and point out to my boss that, actually, if I stayed in bed every day my uterus pitched a fit, I’d miss over a week of work a month, so ‘it’s nice that you feel all better!’, even if you mean it very kindly, is possibly not the ideal remark to make to me when I am scrabbling about in my desk drawer for some ibuprofen to wash down with the soluble cocodamol fizzing away before the both of us.
Never mind. Tomorrow will be better. And next week I won’t be going to work at all and they’ll all have to make do without me and my almighty biceps.
Meanwhile, the NHS has been batting my PA (H) about like a cat faced with a hamster in a ball. Eventually, he cornered and spoke to some kind of facsimile of a human being who, well, I’d like to use the word ‘confessed’ but ‘boasted’ is probably more like it, that the reason we hadn’t heard anything yet about our follow-up appointment with Miss Consultant – the one we watched her make notes about all over my paperwork back in February, the one to discuss the adenomyosis and any further recurrent pregnancy loss testing, yes, that quite important appointment that Miss Consultant noted on my notes – well, the reason we hadn’t heard anything about it was because it hadn’t been booked. Despite the notes. How does October suit us?
(It doesn’t. We were supposed to be seeing Miss Consultant at the end of May, which is already over three months after the previous appointment).
I wish I could blame the Tories for this, but alas Labour were still in power when Miss Consultant’s staff ignored her very fucking clear and surprisingly legible request that I be booked for another visit three months thence.
Also, if, as the supercilious jobsworth H dealt with explained, the RMC is understaffed and overbooked and has waiting lists out the wazoo, why in fucking fuck isn’t the NHS spending more cash on RMCs? Elsewhere in Britain hospitals are going delirious with the amount of noughts they can fit on a cheque and buying computer systems no one has a clue how to use, and no one has a clue how to keep data confidential on, so the whole thing ends up overbudget and, crucially, still in its bubble-wrap. Why, the local RCM could probably get a clinic manager who can read for the system-designers’ biscuits-and-tea budget alone.
I am 35 on Monday. I do not have time for this ‘handle your own borked innards/recurrent loss’ crap. I. Do not. Have. Time.