..... or an excuse for another rant.
As many of you will know from reading my success stories over the last few months, I really am "onwards and upwards". I have done more things in the last 60 days than I had for most of last year. And the vast majority of them were done without any (or very minimal) freaking out.
Work is ok. I'm getting myself sorted financially, I have first refusal on a new build house, hopefully ready this autumn, my depression finally seems to be lifting (although I'm still taking the Prozac), I'm riding regularly again, I'm hopefully going to be competing again by the end of the season, I have discovered the reason for my weight gain and am therefore able to do something about it. I'm doing extra CBT to sort out my last few problems. In fact, life is just fine and dandy. Until .......
Ages ago, I had a few problems, specific only to ladies, which I don't really need to go into detail about. Anyway, I had to have two operations, and was declared "cured".
This January, my three yearly reminder came through. Having had a bit of a scare several years ago, I am very diligent about going and having regular checks when due.
So I rang the surgery and asked to make an appointment with my GP. Eva Braun on reception informed me that doctors no longer DO that sort of thing, and I should make an appointment with the practice nurse, which I duly did. She was a very nice lady, asked about my history, so I told her my problems, and also the fact that there was often difficutly getting a good enough sample. She took two tests, and used an implement of medieval torture to take the second, thus ensuring (hopefully) that one if not both of them would provide the required information.
Obviously as Unlucky is my middle name, she was not successfull, and I had to return for further delvings. I phoned the surgery and Eva informed me that I had to a. wait three months and b. make sure it was at the correct interval in my cycle. Now it may come as some surprise to Ms Braun, but I actually have an A Level in English, and had absolutely no problem reading the instructions issued from the local Health Authority. In fact Eva was starting to p**s me off quite a lot by this point.
Anyway being a decent law abiding citizen, I adhered to Evas instructions, and phoned three months later. However, this time, I just asked for an appointment, and refused to say what it was for.
I went to my favourite GP, who said, "Oh the nurse usually does that". Yes I know - I've been through it already once, but she wasn't successfull, and you have never taken a test and NOT got a result first time. She was really pleased that I had so much faith in her ability, but was not quite so impressed when I let it slip she is known locally as The Butcher.
Anyway, she went to commence the procedure (why do you not pay attention to your undies in the morning? I was wearing a particularly attractive pair of white cotton, that had accidentally got in the washer with a new pair of black jeans. I should have paid more attention to my gran when she used to warn me about being knocked over by a bus).
Anyway, after a brief look, she informed me that I had problems which meant a referal to the Hospital!!
I HATE hospitals. I've only had to go four times in my entire life - that works out as once a decade. I particularly have a "thing" about the one that I shall have to go to. On the floor above where I will be seen is the ward where my gran died. I am trying very hard NOT to think about it, but I suppose that it is natural to be concerned - gran died of ovarian cancer, as did her mother, and I know that there is a genetic pre-disposition to it.
The other reason I don't want to go is the people there (not the staff, they were great, but the other patients).
The first time I went, my dad was sitting with me in the waiting room. We were doing a crossword and trying to work out where the photo of a local view had been taken.
Just then a middle aged lady walked in wearing holey three quarter length leggings, in that funny sh
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