Good.
It's time for another butt update.
I should have seen my NHS consultant in July but, due to NHS cutbacks and issues with funding it turned out to be in October. Obviously there was no point in discussing the results of the Mebeverine trial, as I'd finished taking that stuff several months before. The long and the short of it was that my consultant had done all he could for me, and I was being referred to a different specialist, and I was given a choice of two - either the consultant who actually butchered my arse (and, the weekend after, discharged me from an emergency ward without examining me) way back in January, or a consultant that I'd not met before. I chose the latter.
While in that hospital yesterday getting my Dad repaired I took the opportunity to chase an appointment with that new consultant. I came home armed with his name and number, and today I was on the phone to his secretary trying to get something sorted out.
She confirmed that although no appointment had been made, the new consultant had agreed to take on my case and "a letter had been registered". In other words, he's sent a letter to his appointments manager asking her to arrange an appointment for me. That's as far as it went. I explained that my condition was getting worse rather than better, and I was passed over to said appointments manager.
That turned out to be an interesting conversation. Apparently they need to see me in the Functional Bowel Clinic. I can't have an appointment until the clinic managers find time to fit me in, and they can't fit me in because they have a...
wait for it...
are you ready?
A...
I must admit, that did make me chuckle. It was a great choice of terminology.
And then the chuckling stopped. It's no minor backlog. They're still making appointments for folk that should have been seen in APRIL!
Which, of course, means that I have at least eight more months to wait until it's my turn.
Eight more months of unpredictable sessions of thrush, pain and/or bleeding, eight more months of alternating between incontinence and constipation, eight more months of unnecessary hassle.
Fellwalking and so on will have to be risked rather than enjoyed. Wildcamping is a no-no.
Whoopie-fecking-doo.
Let me be the first to wish you all a Happy New Year.
