Ok, at last it’s got to me and I’ve succumbed to lockdown madness. I cut my own hair. It is shorter than I planned as I tried to keep the sides matched. One side is a neat bob, the other is a chopped mess. But I didn’t dare try to match it any further. I’ve no idea what it looks like at the back. It feels all the same length at least. But not the same thickness, sadly. It will be months before I can book in with Liz, the way things are going, so it may have grown out by then, but I can just see that sorrowful shake of the head and the twitch of her lips as she tries not to laugh.
Needs must. It was driving me potty. It wasn't long enough to tie up. It wouldn’t stay in clips or combs and anyway, it looked rather daft with the length at the back. The problem got worse with this hair thinning. I just couldn’t stop playing with it, trying to will it to stay in a rat-tail band, without all the bits falling around my face. So irritating. Dennis refused to help, not even by directing me to keep it straight at the back. I reckon I cut 4-5 inches and he hasn’t even commented!!
I got a call from the pre-assessment nurse yesterday to remind me to go for the covid test. As advised by my first pre-assessment nurse, I told her of my phobia but this nurse was one of those jolly (just like some of my friends) ‘Oh, it’ll be fine, over before you know it’.
Excuse me, we are talking about a lifelong phobia with a deep-seated cause here, not just a whim. So I’ve googled what happens, I’ve looked for alternatives, I’ve looked for help to minimise the dread and the actual impact - nothing. It’s going to be great when a 69yo woman breaks down at the wheel of her car and is then unfit to drive because she’s traumatised. It’s drive through, one-way. Will I cause a tailback? I don’t even let a doctor use a tongue suppressor!!
Of course I know I’ll do it (or my best) but it does seem unfair when there are alternative tests I could have. Just a bit awkward for the staff. Well, sorry, but what about the traumatised child in me??Why is there virtually zero connection between the mental health services and the medical services? I can’t have the procedure without having had this test. Who’d think that a simple swab test would be my undoing. Cos I am slowly coming undone, stitch by stitch, row by row. Come on woman, you went through chemotherapy (yes, with lorazepam - I can’t drive with lorazepam; I can’t drive with anything nowadays so it’s just basic me with no helpers). Much as I hate the term, I have to dig out my big girl knickers!
Rant over. And no, I’m not displaying my hair. I need exposure to people to get inured to it before I take a selfie.
One hugely positive note: my phone consultation with oncology was with Dr D, my least favourite. I didn't recognise her voice, plus she was 40 minutes early, so I’m embarrassed to say I thought she was from the eye clinic. Confusion over, we discussed the ‘indeterminate mass’ and it seems it was the radiologist who didn't mention it. Now I know what department to curse. However, Dr D is confident that this is not linked the the breast cancer. Ok, that’s good enough for me. Now I could tell Dennis. Phew.
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