Marine Snow

I got a message left on my answerphone yesterday, left by Mrs Anonymous, from “The Hospital”. She said that they’d received my referral letter, and could I call back for an appointment? Then she hung up. What would have been helpful, would have been if she’d left her name, the department she worked in, or the phone number.

So I called back today, doing the predictable red herring race which is an NHS hospital switchboard.

“Hello?”

Click,

“If you know the extension of the department that  you are trying to reach, please enter it on your keypad now, otherwise please hold.”

Surely if I knew the extension I was trying to reach, I’d have called them, No? Click

“Hello?”

Click.

“Hello, all of our operators are busy at the moment, please hold”

The irony being it is probably one furious, grey haired receptionist, transferring my call from line to line. Probably whilst abusing someone at the front office window. This is a very high tech system for a hospital with a reception the size of a port-a-loo

Click.

“Hello?”
“Patching you through.”
“Wait! Wait! I haven’t told you my situa….”

Click.

“Hello?”
“If you are calling in event of an emergency, please hang up and dial nine, nine, nine,”

And I wonder; Is terminal frustration classed as an emergency? And then I thank my lucky stars that it isn’t one of those voice activated systems, otherwise I’d get put through to Dr. For-Fucks-Sake-You-Bunch-of-Sodding-Inept-Wankers-son.

“For all other callers….”

And we went on, and on, until I finally found someone who knew where my file possibly could be. I’ve managed to be promoted apparently, from being a patient managed by a neuroscience research department, to general crazy folk team. Not a team of crazy people, or crazy folk-people, or even answering to General Crazy-Folk-Team of the second platoon of mentalists. But just the team which deal with the more “Interesting” patients. I wonder what did it? Whether it was the crying, or the cackling, or the mixture of the two I last displayed in GP’s Office? Or the part where I hysterically blurted out:

“And I keep hearing this ice-cream van, but it’s not real, it’s not a real ice-cream van!”

and did the custom fingers-dragging-backwards-through-lank-hair-temple-massage-maneuver. Well which ever, it worked. And I have an appointment on the 1st of December. I was expecting to wait a lot longer, so that is promising. If it’s just a matter of bumping up my dosage, then I could be feeling perkier by Christmas!

They wanted to come out, and visit me at home, which made me mildly sick. We don’t have any shared lounge area, so it would have been cosy. Picture us tucked up together, three floors up in the attic. Crouched amongst my big scary canvases and frightening sculptures. Sitting side by side on the futon on the floor. Possibly sipping pint glasses full of tea, made with milk stolen from my housemate because I always forget to buy any. Yes, that would be delightful, but as tempting as that is, fortunately they can see me there instead.  And anyway it’s a good excuse to force myself out of the house. There is a lovely park just around the corner from the hospital, so I could go for a walk afterwards if it’s not pissing it down.

Is it really twisted that I am thinking about walking past the building I first started going to? Strolling past OldTherapist’s and FirstShrink’s office block on the other side of the site, just to see if they notice my bones. Yes, I suppose it is. Besides, I know I’d never do it, because I don’t really want to see either of them, or have them see me. What I actually want is to have some closure on the past year or so. I think that might be the draw of building, not the people inside of it. And actually I think the layer under that, is that I feel cheated, that I was offered a new life, and I blew it, or it never materialised. I suppose really the only way to rectify that, is to start therapy again. But then it’s back to the old excuse, I don’t want to gain weight, or stop being ill ie “Special”. Ho Hum. Swings and Roundabouts.

It’s a shame I’m doing the anonymity thing, because the hospital is a spectacular building, well parts of it are. Some of the original building is quite old, and foreboding, the rest is obviously new build, but the entrance sort of looms up on you. I always feel when walking up the drive, that there should be some sinister music playing. Something a bit Blair-Witch or Sixth Sense

Which is nice, except the building looks a little like this. OK maybe that is a slight exaggeration. Perhaps more like this. Look, come on, work with me here, OK? You know what I’m getting at. It’s darn creepy. Anyway, when ever I go in the main entrance, I always feel like I should be in the back of a car, and be looking up at the building, peering out from a hand cupped to the window. With this real horror show music playing.  But instead I usually arrive hideously early, unkempt, and dripping wet. I’m not sure what the deal is with the weather there. It’s like they have their own micro-climate going on. I swear it’s like a different country, it’s always raining. Of course, as we have already established, I am not capable of using an umbrella, nor safe to do so. It’s probably not always raining, but it should be. Like it seems appropriate in my memory that it be grey clouds and big puddles. And bars on the windows.

I also got some random phone message from my GP, asking if I could call her, because they want me to be part of a NHS presentation to a health team or some such weird question. It’s hard to tell, because she has a thick Italian accent, so she could have been asking me out to dinner for all I understood. Makes me wonder what they want me to do. Images in my head of being in a glass tank whilst numerous persons in white coats huddle around the outside, banging on the side, and pointing. Or me sitting on a stage under some big spotlights like mastermind, being grilled on my opinions of the National Health Service, and sweating profusely whilst muttering

“Cornetto’s……Cornetto’s!”

Think I’ll give that one a miss, somehow.

Other news, My Dad went to see his consultant today, and he is going to be fine in a few weeks. Can’t remember if I posted before, but he has been a bit ill recently. I think he’s been under a lot of stress what with my problems, and looking after my Mum, who is wound up to breaking point. Funnily enough, that would be because of me too. Hmmm. Bit of a reoccurring pattern here.

I found out the reason that Jake has mysteriously dropped off the radar, and it’s not to compete in more ridiculous running adventures. He has had his contract cut short (he does consultancy work) due to the economic climate, and been sent to work down in Devon or Cornwall or something like that. That’s totally stuffed up all his plans with NewGirl, so he isn’t a happy bunny. There is some irony that both of our lives are getting a kicking from depression…

And finally, I made it through last night without throwing up, drinking or damaging myself in any way, so hopefully (touch wood) I am going to be able to get myself back on course again. I’ve not got on the scales, I’ve not cried today, and although I feel like poo and haven’t got out of bed for two days, it’s looking promising. Cross your fingers boys and girls!

Lola x