Running around in ever decreasing circles...until I vanish up my own backside

That is one of those northern sayings that make me laugh-and this hasn't been a week of joy and laughter, I can tell you. You know when you lose your temper over something that is so trivial that it wouldn't ordinarily bother you? And then, when you look at it later (if you look at it later), you see that it reminded you of something in your past that was really important (or you thought so at the time)? That was my week.

I had the weepies last weekend, and they lasted all week. I couldn't figure out why-because Valentine's Day doesn't really have any significance any more. Even when I was married, my ex ignored it as being unimportant and insignificant-but he did that with birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, etc., so I got used to it. Then I divorced him. Well, obviously.

I spent the entire week with a bad feeling, and I have learned the hard way (believe me, it was definitely the hard way!) to trust that when I get a bad feeling in my gut, it usually isn't food poisoning, but something I need to trust.

This was a hospital week, and I've got a few more of those before I have a few odd appointments here and there, so I can actually get things done (dust bunnies. Yick-so many dust bunnies I could open a dust bunny store). Apart from my infusions, I had two consultants' appointments, and those should have been routine-except, they weren't routine at all. No wonder I had a pissed off week.

If you've been following this for awhile, you've been with me through the gentamicin, idiots at the Royal London and Barts very nearly killing me, having to fight my way back from being bedridden for two years, cancer and a double mastectomy...the list goes on. And on. And on. And here I thought that I am, after a hellish seven year period, turning the corner. So it was a huge shock when I was told that I need to have more tests to confirm a diagnosis of-get ready for it-motor neurone.

More tests, more scans-I'll probably just keel over from radiation poisoning. But Dr. X said that we repeat the tests-and do more-just to be certain. Dr. X-very experienced, very competent, pretty good "bedside manner". So we'll see-and if I'm in for another fight, well, I'm used to it.

I had the warning shot over the bow about using names in the blog, because some people get really upset (even though I've heaped praise on the ones who deserve that praise). Of course, the cripplers-and Bucky Buckland, the Anti-Christ-will always be fair game. But now, everyone at my new hospital is "Mr. X" or "Mr. Y"-regardless of gender. And if that upsets any females, they can smack me in the head the next time they see me. The problem is this: CRS (Can't Remember Shit), and the fact that there are so many specialists I forget who is Mr. X and who is Mr. Y. So I have at least three Mr. Ys-they''' be more confused than I am, and that (depending on the specialty) can be worrying.

Can I use "the one with the grey hair"? No, they all have grey hair-and some of them have no hair. So, Mr. X it is, and I'll just figure it out as I go along.

I seem to be over the initial shock of the (possible) diagnosis, and I've decided that I can't do anything right now except ruminate over it, and we all know how useless that is, so I'll just wait. Not even the thought of stuffing my face with Kettle Chips had an impact-so perhaps I'll do some spring cleaning a little early.

There are worse things to worry about-like the possibility of that mental case Trump starting a war. That will certainly end the prospect of anyone worrying about anything, because it will be the end of life on earth. Aren't I cheerful? But I will protest if he does anything even more stupid before Easter, because my friend is coming over from Ireland, and I really want to spend some time with her before there is a nuclear war.

One of the doctors this last week (Dr. Y-one of them) asked me if my personality has changed lately. I asked if being more grumpy than usual counts. I'm grumpy, and bad tempered, but I said that people who are rude and incredibly stupid (and who just crash into me without looking and then swear at me afterwards) really get me angry. So, okay, that was accepted. Then I was asked if I laugh at things that nobody else finds funny, or if I don't find everyone else's humor funny. Now there is a minefield, and I said that I do laugh at strange things, but that is my sense of humor: dry, dark, probably a little twisted. I said that will probably never change, just ask my friends (who are just as strange as I am).
I spent an hour answering questions-and this is the NHS, where you have to wait two hours after your appointment to see anyone (if you're lucky), and then you get ten minutes (also if you're lucky). So that's how I knew it was serious.

I guess we will have to see what happens. And now-I'm off to Starbucks. Hang the motor neurone.