“I must remember they’re only a Band 2.”
“I must remember they’re only a Band 2 and they’re hassled.”
“I must remember they’re only a Band 2 and they’re trying to help other people.”
“I must remember they’re only a Band 2 and it’s not their fault there’s nobody else around to take telephone queries while I’m waiting in for them to acknowledge me and now I’m late for my fucking appointment!!!!”

So today I realised that, if a hospital appointment letter tells you to “go to main outpatients”, it actually means “use your psychic ability to work out that you actually need to go directly to the endocrinology clinic in another hospital building”.

My hospital visit had started well; I got a parking space straight away and with fifteen minutes to spare. There was no queue at the outpatients reception and I was seen straight away by a woman who couldn’t figure out that when I said “Cristina with no h, so that’s C-R-I-S…” I meant it was spelled with a C and not a K and, no it still didn’t have an h. She looked slightly confused as she tracked down my appointment, but told me that I should’ve gone straight to the clinic in the Ladywell Building. I knew where that was, it was fine, thanks, no seriously, I know where I’m going, thanks for the map, yes, I know where it is, no honestly. STOP TALKING!!!

There was a queue at the Endocrinology department reception and I waited with growing impatience and thinly disguised agitation as the poor receptionist had to deal with people who shouldn’t have been there, people who should’ve got to the back of the queue, people who phoned up with a lengthy enquiry as the time of my appointment came and went.

Now, I HATE being late for appointments, absolutely hate it. I’d rather get somewhere an hour early than run the risk of being late (apart from today of course and most days at work), so when my turn came, and I could hear myself saying it and still couldn’t stop myself, I said “I’m here for an appointment at 11.30 and I had been on time, but was sent to the wrong place and then got caught in the queue here.”

Why did I do that? Why have a veiled dig at some poor hassled woman who had just been trying to help people?

She looked at the clock and acknowledged the time, then she got her vengeance on my passive aggressive dig by noting on my appointment form that the time of arrival was 11.36 and my appointment time was 11.30. “Take a seat in the waiting area”, she smiled benignly.

Too short
After just a few minutes I was called into a small room where I had the indignity of my blood pressure, height and weight measured.

BP: 135/70
Height: 161cm
Weight: OHMYFUCKINGGOD!
BMI: You should be 19 feet tall for that weight

So that was good.

Soon after I was seen by the reg. He was lovely, took a few lifestyle questions, bashed his head on the desk when I told him I’d been given an aggressive course of vitamin D therapy by my GP, and he explained things perfectly (there is the possibility of surgery). For now though, it’s more blood tests, DEXA scan to check my bones aren’t made of sponge, kidney ultrasound to make sure they’re not full of pebbles, 24 hr wee wee collection. Hang on… 24 hr urine collection, into a bucket? More or less.

So that’s my Sunday sorted: collecting every drop of pee over a 24hr period and storing it in a 2.5L bottle then taking the whole sloshing lot to the clinic on Monday.

Anybody who knows me will know how much of a problem this can be for me. I can’t wee outdoors, I can’t wee into a toilet that’s the wrong height. Let’s just say that Sunday will be a good day for picking nettles because there’s no way I’m going to be able to aim into a bloody jug and I anticipate much coming together with my own excretions.

It’s only a bit of wee. Imagine the fuss I’d be making if I’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness. For everyone’s sake, that really doesn’t bear thinking about.