In June we went to the UK on holiday. I remember going to the Tower of London for the first time. My TT was very interested in Henry VIII and His Six Epic Wives, especially having our picnic at the spot where allegedly Anne Boleyn lost her head…
That building is one thousand years old. Can you imagine. I had no idea – I knew it was old, but not that old. You can do a whole timeline of human history in that one part of London alone. Marvellous I loved it.
We visited schools in the UK in case we ever returned to the UK for secondary schooling. She was very reluctant.
“I live in Tanzania”.
“You brought me here when I was a baby”.
“What, move from the street I grew up on?”
I managed to appeal to her sense of nosiness as I said we could just have a look and see what facilities they had. I couldn’t get her out of the art rooms, especially the pottery room with a KILN. They did textiles and film and other GCSEs.
Forget about her, I wanted to go back to school! In my day there was Art which consisted of drawing a pine cone for what seemed to be terms on end and being told you were useless if you couldn’t.
I had booked my appointment with the doctor well in advance. I was still not feeling well as well as I felt I should be given all the flipping tablets.
I emailed and called to confirm and then they called me to cancel the appointment and could I re-schedule. “No”, I said, “I couldn’t, I live overseas, I had booked it months ago and what had suddenly happened?”
They hadn’t offered me an alternative doctor so there was lots of flurrying behind the scene. Then I got another call saying – as suddenly – it was all fine to come at the same time as before. I really had started to doubt the doctor and all the tablets. Whereas I had blindly taken everything everyone had prescribed and suggested, I was starting to think maybe I was taking too much.
I know I know you are thinking – about bloody time…
Anyway I needed to see her to talk about the progesterone episode and to make sure I didn’t have cancer in my tackle. I was swept into her office, looking back there was definitely something wrong. The appointment was really rushed. It was private so they are usually a bit more pretendy about looking at their watches and clocks and moving you on out.
I started with the progesterone saga and then that I still wasn’t feeling that great. I was moody, tired and crashing between 3-5pm. She looked at my blood work, humphed and pumphed and said;
“Well you really are in a bad way… And we’ve done everything. You have to take progesterone if you still have a uterus so why don’t we whip it out?”
It is all still a bit of a blur but I remember just staring like an idiot and I think I was a complete goldfish until I asked,
“Whip what out?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Your uterus of course. Why, do you still want it?”
Well now there is a question I hadn’t thought I’d have to answer just like that. I hadn’t had a conversation like that since hearing the Perimenopause lasted 10 years.
As I was unable to speak, she continued, “We can cauterise it instead if you don’t want to whip it out.”
I do remember involuntarily clamping my legs together at the word cauterise. It sounded like a welding procedure.
“It is no longer working for you, you know your uterus. It is actually working against you.”
“There are now three cancer sites in your body, as you age – your ovaries and your uterus.”
“Think about it”, she said, as I was unable to engage in any sort of conversation with her with any intelligence. I was however not convinced…