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Adult Autism Assessment Prep

I’ve been debating how I was going to word this post for a few weeks now, but no matter how long I leave it, it remains very much a jumble in my head, so that is likely how it’s going to come out here. I have my adult autism assessment coming up in just 10 days (21st October), and whilst I’ve thought for a long time that I had “some autistic traits”, it never occurred to me until about 14 weeks ago, after a failed attempt to eat chicken sausages.

Living in refuge and technically being homeless, we have access to the “FareShare” charity. It is the UK’s largest charity tackling food waste, whilst also fighting hunger. They save short date food from supermarkets and local independent food shops/cafes, and redistribute it to vulnerable adults, children and families. So, once a week I get a bag of free food. They take into account food allergies, and whether you are vegetarian/vegan or not, but other than that, you get a very mixed jumble of items. One such bag contained the now infamous chicken sausages.

I had an instantaneous aversion to them, what with pork sausages being the only “proper” sausages. My friends told me that they were actually really rather nice, and that I should try them before writing them off. So, against every fiber of my being, I opened them. The smell got to me first, they smelled “wrong” which to my brain, equates to having gone off. they also looked wrong, which meant that I couldn’t even bring myself to touch them to get them out of the packaging. I had to use a fork to do that. As they had a somewhat short date on them, I decided to cook the whole pack, then what I didn’t eat for tea could go into a sandwich the next day. I arranged them on the tray, put them into the oven, set the timer for half way, and went to go and sit down. I shared with my friends what my response was, and I became increasingly agitated. Still, I’d agreed to try it, so once my meal was cooked, I sat down, cut a small piece off… put it into my mouth… and promptly projectile vomited. I just couldn’t cope with anything to do with it. The smell, the appearance, the taste, the texture….it was all vile. After cleaning up, and responding to my friend’s many messages in our group chat, asking for my reaction. I described to them exactly what had happened, in great detail. I will spare you all those details.

One friend called me straight after that explanation, and said to me “You’re autistic. You need to ask your GP for a referral to the adult assessment unit”. That got things turning in my head so much so that at my therapy session the next day, I explained to my therapist what had transpired the night before, and asked if she thought it would be worth speaking to my Dr about, and to my surprise she said she could do the referral, and we could go through the initial screening “test” then and there if I wanted to. Obviously I said yes, I’m not one to hang around. She asked the questions, and I answered honestly having no idea which way it would go. As she finished tallying up the results, she exclaimed “Oh wow! I’ve done hundreds of these tests before, and never had anyone score 10/10 before!” I burst out into shocked laughter, saying that that wasn’t the type of test that you wanted to get full marks on! She said she’d write up the referral, but it may not get sent in for a couple of weeks, as she was taking a week off the next week. This was on Tuesday, and she didn’t know if she’d have time to finish it and send it before the end of that Friday.

Again I was taken by surprise when she text the next morning around 10am, saying she’d sent the referral in. I guess she had plenty of examples to pad out the referral in her notes from our previous sessions, plus the “sausage incident”. I carried on as normal over the next 2 weeks until our next session. At the end of that next session, I was told that the referral had been accepted, and that they would meet with me… at some point. Mental health services can be slow at the best of times, let alone during a worldwide pandemic, but the majority of people have to wait 18 months – 2 years in order to be assessed. I thought that I may have been seen a little quicker due to being in refuge, but I didn’t expect my therapist to say that I had been put on the urgent list, which meant being seen within 12 weeks of the date they accepted the referral. About 3 sessions ago, Kate (my therapist) told me that they’d like to meet with me on the 21st October, but were giving me the choice of where to have my assessment. Either I could go to the mental health unit as everyone else does, or given my circumstances they could come and do it at the refuge office, to try and minimize my stress a little. I chose that option, because I at least know where it is. I don’t want the added stress of trying to find somewhere new so early in the morning. My appointment time is 9.30am, and seeing as it is in Scotland at the end of October, no doubt it will be a very cold, very rainy morning. Bad luck is the only kind of luck I have!

At the end of last week’s session, Kate explained to me that usually they ask that a parent or someone who has known you since early childhood go with you, to answer questions about when you were a baby and young child. That isn’t possible, given the fact my family are 400 miles away and my mother is uncooperative, so I was emailed the pdf of the assessment to print out, and to try and get as many answers out of my mother as possible. On Saturday afternoon, I endured possibly the longest hour that ever existed. I’d mentioned to mother in passing that this would be happening, gave her a few days notice so she could warm up to the idea. I worked incredibly hard to come off as neutral/positive about it as possible, made her feel like there was no judgement and that it was no big deal, they just need answers to stuff I couldn’t possibly remember, I joked saying she should start thinking about all the “weird stuff” I did as a baby and toddler. The first bombshell dropped when her immediate reply to that was “What, like when you used to scream, rock and slam your head against the wall or floor for hours on end?” “Yes mother…exactly that sort of thing. How old was I when that started?” “Oh, about 8 or 9 months.”

Saturday afternoon came, I had the questionnaire printed out on my little table, and had my iPad set to secretly record. I thought they may like to hear some of the answers coming directly from her, but knew she’d go silent if I told her I was recording it. I can not even begin to describe how hard it was to remain cool and calm when listening to her explain how I’d have these “tantrums” where I’d scream, violently rock, and slam my head off of whatever hard surface I could find for HOURS until I exhausted myself. Hearing her say how it was “funny” when I was a toddler, and how she used to threaten me with “shall I open the front door so the rest of the street can hear you?!” How she’d almost sent me to boarding school multiple times, just to get rid of me. How I’d once thrown my plate during a “tantrum” “just because she squirted the tomato ketchup all over my dinner, instead of in a puddle at the side”, which ended in mashed potato sticking to the wall, which my brother thought was hilarious so joined in. I was old enough to remember that one. I got sent to stand outside for an hour as punishment, whereas my brother had no punishment. She remembers both of my older brother’s first words, and when they started walking, but not mine. She said that as a child, I was “uncontrollable.”

She spoke about how as a child, everything had to be in straight lines, from my toys as a toddler, to decorations on the Christmas tree. We both laughed at how hard I’d deliberately tried at 8 or 9 to make sure that the decorations were evenly spaced, and yet when I stepped back, they were all in lines.

She confirmed that I’ve always been funny about food. How I wouldn’t eat my meal if the food groups were touching, or if there was an excess of sauce (still like that now), and how I’d go through “weird phases” where I’d only eat one or two things for weeks-months on end until I got fed up of it, and moved onto the next thing. So many classic symptoms, but yet she did nothing about it. Even if she didn’t know or suspect autism, how could anyone, let alone a mother watch their 8 month old baby slam their head against the wall or floor for hours, in such distress but not seek help?! She also mentioned at one point about how I used to bang my head off the railing of the cot she used as a playpen for me downstairs.

I was so exhausted after that phone call, that I immediately went to bed and slept for 4 hours straight, woke up and ordered food as I was still too exhausted to cook, and then went straight back to sleep for the night as soon as I finished eating. Sleeping through the night is unheard of for me. That form was filled out using my mothers words. Kate asked me to also write down all of these events as I remember them, as well as the “signs” I still have today.

Two sessions ago at the end of our session, she randomly commented “If you don’t walk out of that assessment with a diagnosis, I’m going to have to quit my job!”, and at the end of the last session she said “If it were just up to me, I’d have been waving the autism flags weeks ago”. From what she has said, the diagnosis is as close to guaranteed as possible, but it will be down to them to decide what if anything (OCD, ADHA etc) is diagnosed alongside it. For now, all I can do is write out as many things as I can remember, and be prepared. I did do the AQ50 online, and scored 48/50. Considering I struggle to process my emotions at the best of times, I just can’t wrap my head around this. I have asked her directly “How did you ever think I was normal?!” and “Why didn’t you get me assessed years ago?” but yet she just goes silent and unresponsive. I knew I was neglected as a child, especially emotionally, but as far as I’m concerned, this goes far beyond that.

Roll on 21st October 2020.

The offending chicken sausages, root mash and sweetcorn.

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Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!! Or was it Dragons?!

*Warning – contains graphic descriptions*

Sunday started out like any other Sunday, or rather, like every Sunday has been for the last 5 months since moving here. It was calm, quiet, peaceful, just pottering about…….Until I brushed my teeth after my tea at 6.30pm. The second the bristles hit the left side of my mouth, what I can only describe as being the mount Vesuvius of blood erupted from my mouth. I have had a few broken teeth for months now, after an altercation with my husband just before I left, and because for our entire relationship, he refused to let me go to get regular dental treatment, because it would have involved spending money that could otherwise have been spent on alcohol. This last Sunday evening, despite me talking to them regularly and telling them that I’d get them sorted as soon as the lockdown restrictions are lifted for regular dental treatment, this one tooth decided that it didn’t want to wait. The immediate pain that came alongside the gushing blood made me make the snap decision to sacrifice a towel, and use that to be able to make a mad dash to the freezer for an ice pack, without trailing blood all through the flat. once safely back in the bathroom and leaning over the sink, i gingerly removed the towel, tossed that safely into the bath to deal with later, and held the ice pack to my cheek. All I could do for the next 10 minutes was stand over the sink with my mouth open, allowing the blood to safely exit and be washed away. Whilst being from a different source, I figured I would be best of treating it as though it were a nosebleed. Thankfully I’ve only had a few in my lifetime, but as a child, my brother had them regularly so I at least knew what to do. After I could safely leave the sink, I made my way to the sofa, collapsed in a heap and called NHS24. As we went into lockdown just days after arriving, I’ve not been able to get registered with a dentist yet, so knew I would have to see the emergency dentist. I cannot fault NHS24. After being on hold for just a few minutes, someone answered, I explained the problem and my situation. The were very understanding when I said I wasn’t allowed to give them my address, with it being refuge property. The lady that I spoke to said she would mark it as priority, and a dental specialist would call me back within an hour.

It was just 20 minutes or so after that, that a dental nurse called me back. Again I went over my current situation, and explained why I’d not been able to see a dentist for the last 6 years, and why I hadn’t already had the tooth removed, as well as explaining what had happened to cause mouthmageddon. I was told that because of Covid-19 there isn’t an out of hours dental clinic anymore, but she gave me the phone number for the dental hospital and told me to call them at 8.30am Monday morning, and that they’d be expecting me call. That night was a very long, very painful night. I spent the night on the sofa watching tv, whilst rotating through all my ice packs just to try and numb the pain a little. I think Sunday night lasted more like 327 hours than just a regular night. By 8.20am I was clutching my phone and ready to call as soon as the clock ticked over to 8.30am. Sadly I had to wait until 8.47am to be able to speak to the receptionist, but they told me that the dentist would call me back shortly to arrange an appointment to go in. Once again it was only 15-20 minutes before the dentist called back. When he did, I again went through what had happened, my dental history and my current living circumstances…..and when I got to the hospital to be seen, I was blown away by how they handled the situation. They specifically allocated me the female dentist, despite the fact it was the male dentist who was doing the emergencies that day. They didn’t want me feeling uncomfortable with having a man standing at my side leaning right over me. A fact that I was very thankful that they understood and took steps to prevent. The female dentist was also incredibly understanding of the fact that I’d been unable to see a dentist for 6 years, and instead of berating me for it as I’d expected, other than having the broken teeth courtesy of my husband, the rest of my teeth are overall in fairly good good condition. She was amazed at the fact there wasn’t any plaque buildup at all. After either 3 or 4 full syringes of anesthetic, I was paying too much attention to how amazed she was over the fact it took so much to numb me, and the fact that I didn’t feel the needle at all, to keep track. Over all it only took a couple of minutes for that tooth to be removed, but it took longer for the bleeding to stop. It decided to erupt like Mount Vesuvius again, and give her a first hand demonstration of what it had done the night before. She was impressed with how large a pocket of infection had built up in less than 24 hours. Once it stopped bleeding, it was only a quick taxi ride home, and then my friends were treated to what they describe as “a day of epicness”. The amount of anesthetic I had mixed with my regular meds, including morphine, meant that I was absolutely high as a kite for the rest of the day! I particularly remember one part of the conversation that ended up involving dragons being in front of the fridge as an effective way of losing weight.

“Unfortunately”, the medicated loosening of my tongue had me blurting out things to certain people that I wasn’t particularly ready to announce yet. Including telling the person spoken about in my last post the words I don’t like saying. Thankfully whilst He did laugh, it was in an amused way at just how off my head I was.

Here’s hoping that next weekend isn’t as dramatic!!

My Struggle With Anxiety, And Coming Back After A Break.

After a major case of writer’s block, my New Year’s Resolution this year was to post here on my blog on a regular basis, or at the very least a semi regular basis. However, when January 1st came around, a crippling amount of “what if” thoughts arrived with it. What to write about first? Should I do another catch up post? Or just carry on as if I hadn’t had a break for almost a year? Something I struggle quite badly with is PDA. No, not personal displays of affection, but a condition called Pathological Demand Avoidance. This condition goes hand in hand with Autism. The National Autistic Society describes it as “a profile that describes those whose main characteristic is to avoid everyday demands and expectations to an extreme extent.”

Essentially, the basics of day to day life is so overwhelming for me, that I find it almost impossible to get anything done, because the hardest part is starting. An easy to explain example of this in regards to my own life, is doing the washing up. For all of my life up until the autism diagnosis, I didn’t understand why something that in theory is incredibly easy, is so difficult for me. We didn’t have a dishwasher until I was well into my 20’s, so as I child I grew up having to wash up by hand. This is an absolute sensory hell for me. The constant temperature changes of plunging your hands into and back out hot water, the sensation of having incredibly soapy water on your hands, making them feel slimy. Well, that;s how my brain processes the sensation. Then there’s the fact the water gets dirty and there could be bits of food bumping into your hands, if you’re scrubbing a cooking pan. As I got older, none of these sensations got easier to handle, and it became the job I hated the most, and even though I now have a dishwasher, there is still a mental block in my mind. Now that I live alone, I constantly walk on the knife edge of anxiety. Because this chore is so hard for me, I end up ignoring all the dirty dishes, instead using every plate, bowl, cup and piece of cutlery I own, telling myself “I’ll load the dishwasher later”, “I’ll do it in 5 minutes” etc, but those times never come until there is no crockery or cutlery left. At that point I HAVE to do it, but because there is a mountain of things waiting to be washed, I get overwhelmed by the sheer amount, and therefore at risk of having a meltdown. Yes, as much as I hate to admit it, I have had many meltdowns in my 35 years of life because of having to do the dishes. Each and every time this happens, as I am playing crockery tetris trying to fit everything into the dishwasher in a way it will all get cleaned, I promise myself that this won’t happen again, but it always does.

Another example is showering. Quite often I want to go places and do things, but again this very simple daily life task overwhelms me to the point where not only do I not get showered and dressed, I end up not getting anything else done that day because I haven’t showered and got dressed. It is a visious, never ending cycle!! The reasons this task is so difficult for me is much the same as with the washing up. The temperature changes of getting in and out of the hot water, and the sensation of slippery skin. That sensation is not a plesant one for me. It actually makes my skin crawl. The bizarre thing is, once I’m actually in the shower or bath, I actually really like it. I like the heat, the loosening of tight muscles, it’s the knowing that I have to turn the hot water off and step out into what feels like a freezing cold room afterwards that makes this so challenging for me. I know logically that the air temperature isn’t actually freezing cold, but my body processes even minor temperature fluctuations as if they were large jumps. Over the years I have come up ways of helping, and I manage to shower most days now or at least every other day, but I do still have days where I just can’t do it. Because I live my life with routines, when I have one of these days where I can’t have either a bath or shower, instead of just having a wash and getting on with the day, my brain processes it as no shower means I can’t do anything that I’d normally do after the shower, because I haven’t had the shower. I hope these 2 examples give’s a basic overview of how challenging PDA is for me.

As far as the writer’s block goes, despite having decided that my New Year’s Resolution to post regularly, because I didn’t post on January 1st it had a rolling snowball effect, which is why it has taken me 4.5 months to build up to breaking that snowball’s journey. I hope from here on out, now I’ve made this post, I’ll be able to carry out my plans to post more regularly.

Autism Assessment – Honest and Raw. Why It’s Taken So Long To Post.

First of all, I need to apologise for taking so long to post this. I hope once you have read through this post, you will understand why, and forgive me. The timing finally feels right to share my story now, what with it being Autism Awareness/Acceptance month. For the longest time I couldn’t write about it as my thoughts and emotions were swirling all over the place, and then it got to the point where it had been so long, that even getting started became almost impossible. But finally, this is my story.

As I mentioned in my last post, on the 21st October 2020 I had my Adult Autism Assessment. The day started as I’d expected it too, a night of no sleep followed by being up far too early, because anxiety wouldn’t let me rest. That morning was incredibly cold, so I had to be bundled up in my thick winter coat as well as wearing a scarf, neither of which I like wearing. They are too restrictive. I arrived in the town centre about half an hour early, so to give me something to do to use up some time, I treated myself to a hot chocolate from the coffee shop, which was still service for takeaway orders at that time. Not only did it give me something to do, it was comforting, calming, and warming…. both internally and for my hands. I wandered very slowly to the building where I was going to meet my psychologist, who would then introduce me to the 2 women doing the assessment. One was a clinical psychologist specialising in autism, and the other was a speech and language specialist. Both were friendly but calm, and were very good about trying to reassure me as much as they could. They knew that I was living in refuge and had PTSD, so I appreciated the fact that the very first thing they asked was what was the best thing they could do if I had a flashback or panic attack. The next question they asked, was if I wanted them to turn off the overhead lights. That helped too. The next 35 minutes are mostly a blur. I know that I rocked and leg bounced my way through it, and drank several glasses of water. The thirst from the anxiety was awful, my mouth felt like we were sat in the middle of a desert, rather than in an office building.

They read through my answers on the questionnaire and asked a few generalised questions. Did I think I masked? Did I have any “unusual” interests as I child? Did I have many friends? What did I think about my peers? Did I feel different at a young age? How did I feel when plans changed, or when I got angry or frustrated? I had to describe my behaviour as a child too, and listened to the recording I’d gotten from my mother about my childhood also. My mother lives 400 miles away, and obviously with it being lockdown, she couldn’t travel from one end of the country to the other. I recorded the phone call I had with her. I asked her the questions on the questionnaire, and she answered in her own words. It was completely unedited, and the best we could do given the circumstances. They listened to her saying about how when I was only a few months old, I’d repetitively bang my head with my fists and cry for hours. She also said how once I got to 6 months old and could sit up, when I was frustrated I’d have a “tantrum” (her words!) and bang my head against whatever hard surface I could, be it the floor, a wall or the bars on my cot. She mentioned how these would happen multiple times a day, and could be because of “Something daft like refusing to wear socks in winter because they “hurt”.” For the questions about how I was at playschool (now called nursery) and then full time school, she said about how when she left, I would scream and scream and have tantrums, so in the end as a distraction in order for her to leave, they would take me to the supermarket across the road to buy milk, so I didn’t actually see her leave. She said how I never interacted with the other kids, I’d either play by myself, or talk to the adults. I wanted proper conversations, not the stilted conversation from a toddler. It was much the same once I got to school, and then later college. I had nothing in common with my peers. She mentioned about how she used to send me to my Nan’s every weekend and school holiday from the time I was 3 (and my brother 5), because she “couldn’t cope with us both”. When asked to describe the “tantrums”, she described the time I was around 6 and had a tantrum because she’d put the tomato ketchup squirted all over my food, rather than in a puddle not touching anything, and how I sat half way up the stairs, screaming and crying and “carrying on”, rocking and slamming my head against the wall. Word for word she said “It went on for hours until you exhausted yourself, although I’m not sure whether you fell asleep or knocked yourself out from the head banging. I had to pick you up and carry you to bed. You didn’t even stop screaming when I threatened to open the front door so the rest of the street could hear you!” There was a question about my eating habits as a child, and Mother described how my foods couldn’t touch, and that whilst I’d eat a wide variety of food, I’d eat something repetatively until I got bored of it, and then moved onto something else which I’d then eat 3 times a day. These obsessions could go on for anywhere from a few days, to several months. I am still like that now at times, although not as often. I still can’t have food touching on my plate either. She told them that I’d “be a nightmare” during school holidays, and couldn’t wait to go back, and “God help a routine changing”. It was incredibly hard listening to her talking about these things in such a relaxed manner.

Then it was time for the speech and language part of the assessment. She started by explaining that there were no right or wrong answers, as her job was to see how I interacted with language in general, and how my brain processed the language. We played a few word games, “If I say a word, what is the first word you think of?” type games. Then there was one to see about short term memory. She read a short story and then asked questions about it. After that, she read it again, and asked me to repeat it back in as much detail as I could. At the end of the assessment, they told me they would both be meeting a week later to discuss their findings, and then I’d hear back from them.

The 28th October dawned after 7 very long days. I knew they were meeting at 3pm, so all day prior to that I could only think about what was going to be said in that meeting? Did they think I was autistic? Would I get the answers I’d been looking for, for so long? How would I feel if I didn’t get diagnosed? How would I feel if I DID get diagnosed?! Finally it got to 3pm, and my stomach was churning. I was expecting a fairly long wait, but it came as a surprise when my phone rang at 3.05pm. It was my psychologist, and I’ll never forget her words. As soon as I answered, she said “I know how stressful this has been for you, so I won’t make you wait. They’ve already called me and given me the go ahead and tell you that they ARE diagnosing you with Autism Spectrum Condition.” What else was said after that, I don’t know. My head was buzzing. Here was the final piece to the jigsaw that had been missing for so many years. I know a lot of people are against the puzzle piece image as far as Autism goes, because of the connection to Autism Speaks, but for me it represented exactly how I felt. How I still feel. For 33, almost 34 years…. I had lived with all these challenges, all these difficulties that had made my life so exhausting and demoralising, and finally knew why. I finally knew that it was because my brain was wired differently, not because I was broken or as my family always said, an “evil devil child”.

A few weeks after that I had the feedback appointment, which this time my psychologist was allowed to sit in on. One of the things I asked, was if it had been a difficult decision to make, seeing as no one in my life had ever even thought that Autism was a possibility. The diagnosing psychologist said that they had known in under 2 minutes that I was Autistic and that they’d be diagnosing me, the rest of the assessment had just been a formality. The rest of that session was mostly discussing the best ways for my psychologist to continue to help and support me. I was given a list of women specific resources, and that was pretty much that.

In the weeks that followed, my feelings were all over the place. While the feeling of relief was constant, the feelings towards my family were not. Whilst I’ve known for years that my family is “messed up”, I hadn’t realised the true extent of it. I’d known that my entire family had been emotionally negligent and mentally abusive, having heard my mother talk so calmly about my early childhood and the way they treated me was incredibly upsetting. We weren’t “just” talking about negligence now, both her and my Nan crossed over into physical abuse. You can’t call it anything else, when all they did was stand by and watch a defenceless baby in so much destress that they are hitting their head until they pass out. How they treated me as a child was not acceptable in any way. It has taken until now to not only process my diagnosis and accept myself for who I am, but to work through my feelings about my family and childhood. When I told my family that I had been diagnosed as autistic and had a very lengthy report explaining how they came to that decision, they still don’t believe it and think it’s wrong……because I can talk. Never mind the fact that when I get too overwhelmed, I always have and still do end up selectively mute.

So, this is my diagnosis story. This is my puzzle piece. Personally I prefer to refer to myself as Autistic rather than a person with Autism, and I am not ashamed to be me. I am not embarrassed about being Autistic. I wasn’t born to blend in, I was born to stand out, to be different.

A Very Broken System

WARNING: If swearing offends you, especially the use of the “F” word, this post is not for you, so please scroll past.

For the past 2 weeks I’ve been suicidal again. Unfortunately I’ve been here many times before, so I’m very familiar with how my spiral downwards plays out. Last Thursday, as soon as the Dr surgery opened at 8am, I started calling to get an appointment. I eventually got through to the receptionist at 10.30am. 2.5 hours/62 call attempts later, I get through and say that I need to speak to a Dr. Her immediate response was:

“All the appointments are booked, call back tomorrow between 8-10am.” I replied “I have called 62 times between 8am and now, and only just got through. I need to speak to a Dr, I’m having suicidal thoughts.”

“We’ve been busy, call back tomorrow between 8-10am *puts phone down*

Excuse me?!?!

Calling back on Friday did not happen. I was too overwhelmed and unstable to be able to deal with that again, so I pushed on through the weekend, set and early alarm for this morning, and started again. This time I got in 66 calls before the 10am cut off. I couldn’t hack it any more, so called the out of hours emergency number. For them I was only on hold for a few minutes, but he turned out to be just as “helpful”. I explained the situation, that I was trying to get hold of my GP as I’ve spent the last 2 weeks having suicidal thoughts so my meds need adjusting. I explained my current personal circumstances, and what I have going on at the minute, and his exact response was……..

Him: “Do you self harm?”
Me: “Not right now but I have a history of it. I’ve not self harmed for 6 months, but I’ve been struggling not to.”
Him: “Well, you’ll just have to persevere with trying to get hold of your GP. If you self harm, call us back. Bye.“ *Ends call*

What the actual FUCK kind of crisis support is that?!?! I’ll just go get a knife and start cutting again, shall I?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

The Day My Heart Broke

It has taken me almost a week to be able to write this post. There has been several false starts, but hopefully this will be the time I manage to get the story told. On the 10th July 2020, I had a message from my friend who was/is looking after my dog(s), and told what an animal owner who is living away from their babies never wants to hear. “Minnie is limping, and she’s not wanting to move. She didn’t even want to go out this morning.” I then spent the next hour or so frantically Googling, and finding a vet that would see her during this Covid-19 crisis at low cost. As all of you are aware, I am currently living in refuge after leaving my abusive, alcoholic husband, and whilst I was still living with him, the pet insurance got cancelled to support his alcohol consumption. I had no choice in the matter, he had the final say on all things financial. Until I am re-homed, I am unable to take out a new policy as you have to use a fixed address, not a temporary address. Thankfully I was able to locate a PDSA Veterinary Hospital that is actually only a few minutes away from where I am living, and due to the fact I am disabled and on benefits, I qualified for free treatment. Something I will be eternally grateful for. The lovely person who I initially spoke to on the phone, told me that a vet would call me back asap. It seemed to take hours before I got that call back, but in actuality was only about 30 minutes. She was absolutely amazing, and listened as I sobbed out my current circumstances, and the information my friend had given me about Minnie. After giving her what I could, I then with my friend’s permission, gave the vet her number, so the vet could get more information. An appointment was made for 5pm that day. At this point, we were thinking pulled muscle, or possibly a torn ligament. Well, at least I was.

During the 30 minutes waiting for the vet to call back, there was even more stress than the initial message had caused, both for me and my friend. To understand the situation better, whilst my friend only lives about 9 miles from me, it is on the other side of a river, and buses currently are very few and far between, and I didn’t want to cause Minnie any unnecessary pain, so I asked my friend if she had any friends close to her who drive, who could bring Minnie to the vets and I would meet them there. The friend that was called was unable to do it herself due to ill health, but she said she’d call her ex husband, who she was still friends with. They were told that we didn’t have an appointment time yet, that we were waiting to hear back from the vet, but we just wanted to know if they/he would be willing to drive her over. The husband, despite being told that we did NOT have an appointment time yet, decided to drive over to his ex wife’s immediately, and then decided that he wanted to bring Minnie over NOW. The entire reason that my friend is looking after them for me, is because it’s against the refuge rules to have any pets in the flat. Had he brought her here, I could potentially have lost this flat, and ended up on the streets whilst waiting to be re-homed, so that wasn’t an option. The other option he suggested was bringing her over immediately, and me sitting in the local park with her until the appointment time. Thank God i said no to that. Making her sit in a park for what would have turned out to be 7 hours was not an option either, it would have been cruel. So, i made the decision that I would get the bus over, and bring her to the vet and back in a taxi. Not a decision I made lightly, given the fact that if the taxi driver uses the meter its £20 each way, or £25 if they charge you a flat rate.

An hour or two after the call back from the vet, honestly I can’t say exactly how long it was, time seemed to freeze, I got another message from my friend, saying she’d found a lump. At this point, never mind dropping, my heart plummeted. I knew what the diagnosis was going to be, but convinced myself it would be treatable. When I got over to my friend’s house, whilst she wouldn’t get off the bed, and you could see she was in pain, her tail never stopped wagging, but she gave me her trademark smile. I felt the lump my friend had noticed that morning. I called the taxi company and asked for a taxi that would allow dogs. The taxi arrived, once she had her lead on, she got off the bed by herself, and we slowly made our way out to the taxi. We sat in the front at the driver’s request and off we went. She demanded fuss the entire time. We got to the vet’s early, not knowing what the process was going to be. When we arrived, we had to buzz on the intercom, and they told us to wait outside until we were called, and then go into the entryway. We waited the 20 minutes until our appointment time, I sat on the ground and had her in my lap, wrapped in my coat as it was raining. During those 20 minutes, I discovered another lump in one of her rear mammary glands. When we were buzzed to come in, I was told we would be let in, to take her lead off and put one of the slip leads on her, and then go back outside while they took her in. I was told that after she was inside, I could go back into the entryway to wait, as it was raining much harder, and I didn’t have a car to wait in. She was inside maybe 10, and then the vet brought her back to me. She stayed at the other end of the entryway, commented on how gorgeous Minnie was, and how well trained and behaved she was, and even asked who had trained her. She was surprised when I told her than I had, and that until I got Minnie, she had spent the first (almost) 5 years of her live locked in kennels 24/7, churning out litters of puppies. The vet then gave me “the” look, and gave me the worst news possible. Minnie was riddled with cancerous growths. She had several on her chest over her ribs, and one in every single mammary gland. It was far too extensive to be able to remove surgically, and I was told she had a few weeks to 6 months to live. I fell apart. Due to my abusive past, I was trained not to cry, but at that news, I broke down and sobbed. I think I got Minnie more wet than the rain had. I was given Paracetamol, Prednisone and an antibiotic for her, and was told I would be called in a week or so, to see how she was doing. Over the next few days, she had a few good days, and a few bad days. The good days she was her normal bouncy self, and on the bad days, she didn’t want to move at all. On the following Wednesday, she had a particularly bad evening, so I had a video appointment with the vet, and she was prescribed Gabapentin. Thursday was a good day for her, she was happy and bouncy, but on Friday morning, I got a message early from my friend saying Minnie was having a bad day. My friend had her first hairdressers appointment that morning since before lockdown, and when she got back, Minnie had taken even more of a downturn. I raced over in a taxi, took one look at her, and she told me. It was time. I absolutely broke down and SOBBED into her fur. I laid on the floor with her for a couple of minutes, and promised her I’d make that heartbreaking, final decision. She had become incredibly pinched at her waistline, she was trying hard to breathe, and she looked exhausted. I called the vet, told them that I thought it was time, and that I was going to call a taxi to bring her in. I called the taxi company in tears, explained to the person booking the appointments, and she promised to get a taxi to me asap, as she was struggling to breathe. The taxi got to us quickly, I carried her down the stairs, and she walked from there to the grass, had a pee, and then walked to the taxi. My friend put her blanket in the front passenger foot well, and I lifted Minnie in. I cried the entire way, and so did the taxi driver, as it was one I had had before. We went straight into the vets, I was allowed in this time, but masked even though I’m exempt (she was worth the potential asthma attack), and I laid her blanket down and sat on it whilst they took her to have the catheter put in. The vet brought her back to me, and Minnie sat on the blanket with me. The vet asked if I was ready, and when I said yes, she administered the drugs from the other side of the room, via a long line. Minnie sagged into my arms very quickly, and I took her down to the floor in my arms. Her final moments were spent in my arms, with me kissing her and me telling her that she was “the bestest pupper”, and that I she was loved, and would be loved forever. Her final breath was at 12.18pm. The vet quietly left the room, leaving me with Minnie, and allowing me to have that initial time to grieve and say goodbye. When I was ready, the vet came back into the room, and gave me the details as I said I wanted her individually cremated, as I wanted to bring her home. I asked if her blanket could stay with her, and she said “Yes, of course it can”. I made the way home, bringing her collar and lead with me. That was not the way I wanted to bring her home. I called and made the arrangements with the pet crematorium, who were very sensitive. I can’t fault them for how they handled the call. I then allowed myself the time to cry myself out, before getting a taxi back to my friend’s house. I needed to be with my other dog.

When I was on the train up here, with just the 2 of them and a suitcase, I promised them that we’d only be apart for a little while, before we were back together in a safe home of our own. Sadly, that is not meant to be for Minnie. Her time came much sooner than I ever expected it too, as she was just a month shy of 9. I should get her ashes back in about a week, and she will have her own special space in whatever home I end up in. As I say to everyone I meet, I didn’t rescue my girls, they rescued me. In the days since losing her, my heart is shattered, and I’m not sure it will ever be whole again. She was such a large part of my life, for the 4 years I was blessed to have her. My friend has also said in these past few days, that watching me break is one of the hardest things she has ever witnessed. Minnie wasn’t just a dog, she was my family.

Rest In Peace darling girl. Run, play and chase the bunnies pain free and happy with the other pups that have gone before you, until the day I cross the Rainbow Bridge and we are reunited once again, for all eternity. I love you Minnie Moo.

In Memory of Minnie, 23/08/2011 – 17/07/2020

A Seriously Crap Day. Adult Autism Referral.

*I don’t expect you to read my mahoosive post, I just needed to get it out of my system. Blood relatives have been blocked from this post *

As you all know, the last 4 months for me have been rather intense, thanks to leaving my abusive, alcoholic husband in secret, and moving 400 miles with just a suitcase (and my 2 labradors who are currently holidaying at a friend’s). Because my life never has been easy, just a week after getting my freedom back….I lost it again to this pandemic. Because of several medical conditions, I was in the “shielding” category, but after an incident of self-harm, the first for many years, the psychologist whom I’ve been having weekly sessions with via Zoom recommended that my mental health had to be an equal priority as my physical health and to go out for walks as and when I needed to clear my head. Thankfully I was able to time those walks for either early morning, so my exposure to other people was incredibly minimal. Then, after roughly 6 weeks here, I discovered a suspicious lump. The GP had me in within an hour of me calling for an emergency appointment, had a grope, and referred me to the breast screening clinic at the hospital. Then, I had a very agonizing 6-week wait for the appointment to come through. Unfortunately, due to the current pandemic situation, that was one of the “nonessential” clinics that got shut down. I had the appointment, had an ultrasound and a biopsy, and I’m now 4 weeks into the wait for the result. I’m hoping that no news is good news. I’ve also been told that if it comes back benign, I’ll be referred for genetic testing, to help me be prepared for anything that could crop up like this in the future. Once again, my sessions with my psychologist started delving into the abuse, rather than this current stress…..and then, last Wednesday happened. Every Wednesday someone from Women’s Aid comes out to do a flat check. Basically, to test the smoke and carbon monoxide alarms, make sure your gas and electric meters are in credit, and that you are keeping the place clean and tidy. They also bring you a bag of random food items that have been collected from local supermarkets, cafes, restaurants etc….food with short dates. In last week’s bag, I had “chicken sausages”. I immediately had an extreme reaction to these sausages, in that to me, every single thing about them was “wrong”. They looked wrong, they smelled wrong…but with much encouragement from some very close friends, I managed to get them cooked. With a LOT of encouragement, I eventually braved trying a bite. The very second this tiny bite of the sausage was in my mouth, I projectile vomited. No warning, no time to get to the bathroom……lets just say I’m thankful I have a waste paper bin by my sofa, for bits of yarn to go in as I’m crocheting. It has been a long time since I’ve had a reaction to food this strong, but I remembered something similar happening as a child….with mushrooms. To this day I can’t stomach them. After a long conversation with a friend who has an autistic son, amid much laughter, I came to the conclusion that I likely had some “autistic traits”. Fast forward to this past Tuesday, 7/7/2020 and my most recent counselling session with “K”. Because she has the week off work next week, she didn’t want to be going into anything too traumatic, seeing as it would be 2 weeks before I get to talk to her next, so I told her about the now-infamous “Sausage Situation”. Again there was much laughter, but at the same time, she took me seriously and asked me more about possible autistic “traits”. I told her about the fact that within my “family”, every time they meet someone close to me, they delight in telling them about how I was a horrid, demon child who had massive “tantrums” which I never grew out of. “Tantrums” that I couldn’t calm myself down from, that would go on for hours until I exhausted myself and fell asleep. I told her about the fact that when I was “upset” as a child, I would go and hide in my dark, enclosed built-in wardrobe, and that I still do the same now when I need to feel “safe”. I told her about how every bedroom I’ve ever had has had twinkle lights, and that as a child, I was obsessed with lava lamps, bubble tubes, fibre optic lights etc. She thought that was enough to go through what amounts to a “could you be autistic” test, and is what is used to find out if you need a referral to the in my case, adult autism place. So she asked me the questions, I answered and gave examples….she added up the “points”, and her immediate response was “Oh WOW!! I’ve never had anyone get 10/10 before!” I got a text the very next morning saying that the referral had been sent. She also gave me a couple of places to start me off researching. I then obsessively watched this channel she recommended, and I had so many “lightbulb” moments. For the first time EVER, I realised that there is likely a reason why I have to cut all labels out of my clothes, and why I can’t stand socks. Why certain textures freak me out etc. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last couple of days thinking about this realisation, and whilst I’m looking forward to learning everything I can, I’m mostly overwhelmed with the thought that NO ONE noticed. How did I make it to 33.5, and not one medical professional or family member thought to find out how or why I behaved this way. Instead of finding out WHY I had such epic “tantrums” that I exhausted myself from, WHY I had such strong reactions to certain textures, sounds etc. All I can think about is the fact that not one person in my life (family and medical professionals) right up until the last few months, thought I was anything but a weirdo and a freak. That is what I was told my entire life, every time I did something “differently”. Today, after a series of cock-ups, I ended up the closest I’ve been to having a public meltdown for a very long time. Why? It was hot but also pouring with rain when I had to go out to pick up my emergency prescription, so I had to wear a short sleeve top under my coat, to stop me from passing out from the heat, and I can NOT stand the feel of polyester coat lining touching my bare skin. That was the final straw after a lot of overstimulation build-up the last few days. Thankfully I managed to get home before I lost it. As I type this, I’ve just noticed that even subconsciously, I chose a sensory water bottle.

The Tale of the Absent Noodles


For my American friends, for the purpose of this story, you need to know that Tesco is one of our larger grocery store chains, and that “Super Noodles” are Ramen.
Tesco happens to be my closest grocery store. At a smidgen under a mile away, it is the only superstore in walkable distance, and the walk just happens to take you along the river, which also happens to be my favourite place to walk. This morning, as I usually do, I checked the weather forecast. Just because you wake up to blue skies, you can’t trust that it’s going to stay that way. This is Scotland after all, a country renowned for the amount of rain it gets. I was hard to imagine when looking out at such gorgeous blue skies, that there were showers predicted for ALL day. Sure enough, by the time I’d finished my cup of coffee, the grey clouds started rolling in, and the wind started picking up. Accuweather informed me that it was 20mph with 34mph gusts. That may not sound too much to you, but when you have a spinal cord injury which means you have no core strength, it would be like attempting to walk into a tornado, to me. So, I spend the morning thinking about the bits of shopping that I needed to get, whilst simultaneously glowering out of the window at the sky. It debated whether to brave the wind and possibly end up looking like a drowned rat, or witing to see if the wind died down, but would then be risking the chance of being out during a rain shower even more likely. This internal debate when on ALL morning. Eventually, around about noon, I bit the bullet and decided to go. I got ready, made sure my shopping bags were in my backpack, had my coat on, and looked out of the window……..int he time it took me to put my trainers on, it decided to start raining. So off all my outerwear went, while I waited it out. About an hour later we finally had a blue sky, so I donned my gear again and off I went. The wind wasn’t all that bad as I walked to the end of my cobblestone street, even walking across the green, one of the oldest green spaces here, I wasn’t being blown about all that much……… And then I got onto the path alongside the river! The wind coming off the river was immense! Everyone was being blown about, so we looked like a bunch of drunken toddlers trying to walk along, but the hilarious thing was that the notorious seagulls were being blown all over the place too!! I ended up almost doubled over laughing hysterically at one point, as a seagull missed hitting the lady in front of me’s head by just a fraction of an inch! Just a few minutes after that, I made it safely to Tesco. Now, I am the type of person who HAS to follow rules, so whilst everyone else is going up and down the aisles willy nilly, I HAVE to follow the arrows on the floor, guiding you up and down the aisles. I grab the fresh produce, juice, and yoghurts that I needed…..and then it was time for what has been a complete mystery to me over the last few visits. I have been walking up and down the aisles, eyes peeled, and not a single pack of ramen could be found. Not only could they not be found, there wasn’t even a space for them, suggesting that they were just out of stock whenever I visited. I looked by the pasta and dry egg noodles. I looked by the rice. I scoured every inch of the dry foods section and nothing, so today, I finally plucked up the courage to ask a member of staff. It went like this:
“Me: “Excuse me, I’m probably just being a bit thick, but I’ve been wandering up and down these aisles….could you tell me where you’ve hidden the Super Noodles, please?”
Him: “Certainly…..They’re in the last aisle, aisle 20”
me: “Thank you ever so much!” *Walks off towards aisle 20*
I look up at the hanging sign above aisle 20, and it said, “20 Cereal”
Cereal?! Sodding cereal?! Who in their right mind decided that it was logical to put the super noodles, pot noodles and instant pasta in the cereal aisle?!?! Especially without listing it on the hanging sign, telling you that it was there?! Besides this one very small section, the rest of the aisle was ALL breakfast cereals, on BOTH sides!! I don’t ever go down the cereal aisle, I’m gluten intolerant so I pretty much avoid the stuff like the plague…..I save myself for important things like pasta and pastry. They are worth the pain, bloating, and cramps. Cereal is not. I want to know WHO woke up one day and had a lightbulb above the head moment, and said “Aha!! I know where we will put those noodly foods. We’ll put them with the breakfast cereal. Seems like a logical place, everyone eats noodles for breakfast. Fancy all these other shops wasting precious space for them in places like the PASTA aisle. No one would EVER think to look for them there!”
I’m glad I finally solved the mystery of where the hidden noodles are……..it’s was worth being blown all the way home like the nannies were blown along Cherry Tree Lane in Mary Poppins.
The End.

Attack of the Evil Seagulls…

Picture the scene, the whole of the UK is experiencing a heatwave, and we are not prepared for it, especially here in Scotland. Unlike other countries who experience warm summers, we don’t get the gradual warm up and decrease in temperatures in spring and autumn to adapt, we go from winter to summer and then back to what feels like winter again. I’m not even sure that we truly experience spring and autumn anymore. Anyway, we went from hovering around 12*c/53.6*f to 27*c/80.6*f overnight, and enjoyed these delightfully hot days for over a week. This in itself is a complete rarity, but to have these kind of temperatures coincide with the first stage of lockdown being eased was an absolute miracle! After months of complete face to face isolation, we could now meet up with another household outdoors. Now, the area in which I live comes into play for the rest of this story. I am within a few minutes walking distance of both a beautiful park, and a tidal river. The hot weather combined with the slight ease of lockdown meat there were far more people enjoying the park with their friends than there had been in the weeks prior, and this then lead to an increase of people walking along the river to get too and from the park. As anyone who lives near the coast will tell you, there are always an abundance of seagulls. So on this one particular late afternoon, I decided to walk to the supermarket that is roughly a mile away, to get one of those fold up camping chairs, so I could go to the park to read or crochet, and be able to sit on a proper seat. Whilst there are plenty of benches there, you could guarantee they’d all be taken, now that you could start to socialize again. Anyway, the incident happened whilst I was walking home with said fold up chair. I was casually walking alongside the sea wall, when a gentleman went around me on his bike. There was nothing unusual about that, a lot of people cycle along there, but what happened next could only be classed as comedy gold. The tide was out, meaning that the edges of the riverbed were exposed, on which the seagulls were hanging about on. Walking along at a leisurely pace, I noticed this. The guy on his bike however, was too focused on his cycling and listening to music. So, one of the seagulls hatched a dastardly plan to scare the guy. The seagull took off from the riverbed, and swooped straight up and landed on the wall, right beside the guy on his bike, terrifying the shit out of him!! In the most dramatic comedic fashion, the guy slammed on his brakes, and went sideways. It happened almost in slow motion, you could just see the bike jolt to the right, taking him with it!! How I never burst out laughing, I’ll never know!! Thankfully the guy wasn’t injured, other than his pride being a little bruised and dented.

That night, whilst talking to my local friend on the phone, I told her the story of the evil seagull, and she absolutely howled with laughter. I’ll be honest, she was squawking so much, I half expected her to lay an egg at one point. She asked if he’d fallen over the side and gone over the wall, and when I said that no, the shitehawk was on that side, so he fell into the middle of the path, she said it would have been even more funny had he fallen over the wall. The very next afternoon I got a message from her, and she told me about how she’d gone on a walk to the river on her lunch break at work, and sat enjoying the peacefulness, when a seagull, which I’m convinced is the same evil one from the previous day, swooped down and stole her banana out of her hand, slicing open her finger at the same time!! I could have understood it if it was a Gregg’s sausage roll or steak bake or even chips, but since when to seagulls attack you for FRUIT?!?! The result of that conversation was that she said she now understood why I called them shitehawks (because they’re evil), and that from that very moment in time, she would no longer be calling them beach chickens.

And that my friends, is the tale of the evil shitehawks, and how not even your fruit is sacred. If you have it, they will attack you for it. Below is a picture of the seagull standing proud, watching the bike guy that had just fallen off his bike get back on it and cycle off into the distance!!

…And The Stress Keeps Coming

When I first left my husband 13 weeks ago, I stupidly assumed that that would be the most stressful part, both moving so far away and living on my own for the very first time, and processing everything that had happened, and accepting how bad things had gotten, and that I couldn’t have done any more than I did to save our marriage. Oh how wrong I I turned out to be. What I did not anticipate however, was that just a couple of days after moving to this 2nd refuge flat, I would discover a suspicious lump in my right breast. From this point on, said lump will be referred to as “the boob grape”. This is the name it has been christened with. Anyway, as you might imagine, I called the Dr’s surgery the next morning as soon as they were open. The receptionist asked if I felt I needed to speak to a Dr urgently, so I explained the situation, and she told me she’d get a Dr to call me back ASAP. ASAP in this case turned out to be 7 minutes. Impressive by anyone’s standards. I actually managed to speak to the Dr whom I had been registered with, and once again I explained what I had felt the night before. She asked me to immediately come down to the surgery, and she’d take a look. Walking into a socially distanced waiting room was a bizarre experience. Usually there are chairs all around the room, or in rows filling up the waiting room, but to minimize the potential spread of the virus, almost all of the chairs had been removed, and the 6 or so remaining chairs had been spread out a lot further than 6ft/2m apart. I was only sat waiting for a few minutes before being called in to see the Dr. My Dr turned out to be lovely. She is kind, caring, she listens, and is professional without making you feel inferior, which sadly in my experience, not many doctors manage to do. I explained my family history briefly, and told her that my Nan and several of her sisters had had breast cancer, although much older than I am now. She asked me to strip off my top half and lay on the examination table. She thoroughly checked my right breast, including checking under my arm, and then examined the left breast to compare. As soon as she actually felt the right boob grape, and immediately adopted what I like to call the “professionally cardboard like face”, where they show no emotion whatsoever. I have to hand it to her, from our brief chat she worked out that because of all my other conditions, I’m fairly well up on dealing with doctors, and know when they are trying to fob me off or bullshit me, and she didn’t even attempt to, she just gave it to me straight. She told me that she was very concerned because the lump is very hard, very deep and doesn’t move. Cysts are usually softer, much closer to the surface of the skin, and more able to be manipulated. She said she would refer me to the breast clinic for tests straight away, but that she had no idea how long it would take for me to get an appointment, give the current pandemic situation. Sadly for my anxiety, it took 5 weeks for me to hear from them. Five very long, very anxious, very stressful weeks. Weeks where my emotions and moods would be on the biggest roller-coaster that was ever built. I was all over the place, one minute I was fine, very matter of fact about it, “It is what it is, I just want to know either way, so I can either just move on, or draw up a treatment plan”, to “OMG this is it, it must be really bad if even the GP is seriously concerned, I may as well just walk to the river and jump. Get it over and done with now.” I have very friends left thanks to my husband, but the few that do remain were seriously concerned about my mental state many times. After 5 weeks though, I did get a phone call from the breast clinic, and asked me to attend the clinic on the 4th June. It was yet another week to wait, between the phone call and the appointment. How I got through that week, I don’t know. I was a mess. However, Thursday 4th June rolled around, and after a completely sleepless night, I got a taxi to the hospital. When I walked into the hospital, I had my temperature taken and asked if I’d been out of the country in the last 2 weeks, and when my temperature came back as normal, I was allowed to carry on into the main hospital. I was surprised how many shops were open in there. I’m used to a hospital having a gift shop and a cafeteria, but this one had a couple of charity shops that weren’t open, and then a WH Smith, several different food places, depending on what you wanted to eat, and for the first time in my life, I saw a HAIRDRESSERS in a hospital, however it was being refitted and not currently open. I guess this is the time to do it, if they’d been planning to do it for a while. I found the clinic easily enough, although as per usual, the clinic I needed was right at the very end of the main corridor. When I entered the clinic I was asked to go and sit in this little section they had created, and a nurse came out to take my temperature again as well as ask more questions, one of which was the same one I’d entered at the entrance of the hospital. When she asked if I’d been out of the country in the last 2 weeks, I replied “I’m 33, I haven’t been out of the country since I was 21!” She had a laugh at that and told me that I “should be safe on that score, then” I was only sat in the waiting room for about 10 minutes. Like the Dr’s surgery, most of the chairs had been removed, and the handful that remained had been spread out giving you more than 6ft between chairs. When I got called to see the Dr, once again he checked both breasts, then told be to get dressed and go and sit in a different waiting room, and wait for the sonographer to do an ultrasound. Again, it was only a few minutes wait before I got called in. I got undressed from the waist up for the second time, although this time I was given a piece of paper towel to cover my left breast, whilst they scanned the right one. In general, the ultrasound was okay, although she did press the wand in as hard as she could, to scan as deeply as she could, seeing as the lump was so deep. I wouldn’t say it hurt, it was more like a deep ache, seeing as she was digging it into my chest wall. What WAS painful however, was when she dragged the wand straight over my nipple, somehow managed to get the wand caught on the piercing, and damn near ripped my nipple off! I’m not completely certain, but it’s possible that I levitated above the table for a second. I even emitted a tiny squeak, which is almost unheard of from me. I am happy to sat however, my nip still remains in place, as does the piercing. I’m grateful that it wasn’t removed in the most painful way possible. After that, because strangely enough the ultrasound showed that there is indeed a boob grape there they decided to do the biopsy there and then. That was much less painful than nearly having my nip ripped off. Once I was finally dressed again, they told me to go back and sit in the waiting room, and the Consultant would see me again before I left. The consultant told me that he was going to refer me for genetic testing, considering my age and family history, and then told me that this was the first clinic they’d run since we all went into lockdown, and that the lab had a backlog of biopsies to biopsy………….And that it could take up to 6 weeks for me to get the results. So here I am, 6 days into the potential 6 week wait, and none the wiser on what the boob grape actually is. At this point in time, I’m hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. If it turns out that it is the “Big C”, I will beat it into submission. I haven’t come all this way, moved 400 miles with just a suitcase and my dogs, to be beaten by a boob grape!!