This morning I found myself once again at the hospital, seeing my consultant about my knee. In a first, I got seen five minutes after my appointment was supposed to be (usually its half an hour after it) and I was out of there fifteen minutes later. It was only a review appointment, but in the past I’ve ended up in with the consultant for what seems like an hour, going through everything and having my legs and knee joints examined for pain and swelling. If I was really lucky, I’d have to have a blood test too, which meant taking a number and waiting another 30 minutes for it to be called.
I have had more blood tests in the last two years than I’ve ever had in my life. It took about five tests and an MRI scan before it was confirmed that the knee injury that had been bugging me on and off over the two years had developed into inflammatory arthritis – and even then it wasn’t until they got a second opinion on the MRI scan. I’ve also regularly had my iron levels checked too, being anaemic. Along with having my knee drained earlier this year, I’ve become used to being a human pin cushion, but it would be nice not to see a needle for a while.
Up until now, I’d pretty much avoided being referred to the hospital for anything, aside from an x-ray, since childhood. The last time I had to go for regular hospital treatment was when I was eight years old. I was referred to an ENT specialist as the muscles in my nose weren’t expanding properly , which made it difficult to breathe through it (it was a nightmare when I had a cold). My treatment included several sessions having cotton wool soaked in a solution made from cocaine stuck up each nostril. The realisation that I sort of snorted cocaine at eight years old has both amused and horrified myself and anyone I’ve revealed this to, but it did work.
So that’s today’s entry then. Apologies to anyone who happens to be eating while reading this.