Crises-R-Us

I told you there was a reason for this blog's title. Just to prove I'm a) not lying or b) the victim of some kind of bizarre Munchausen's-like syndrome, or even c) so bored/weird this is what I do for kicks, I shall share with you my latest 'adventure'.
What with Recovering Husband having seen his GP yesterday (another 3 weeks' sick note, mind) and Arthritic Son seemingly declared in drug-controlled remission in his last clinic, things would be looking up, wouldn't they? Even the Teenage Toddler has stopped behaving like Mussolini in the last few days. Although this could be owing to the fact he's passed all his viral symptoms on to me - rather like the transferral of demonic possession in the Exorcist but without the added benefit of its taking place within a work of fiction.

So, having been feeling a tad rough, and wondering if I ought to start looking at my own health now that I've Florenced my way through everyone else's for what feels like eternity, I decided to have a word with the Nurse Practitioner about stopping smoking - I felt rough, hadn't had a cigarette for almost 24 hours and wanted to seize the moment. I also wanted to ask a few q's about the depressing and hideous event that is Significant Rise in Amount of Facial Hair. (Well, all hair if I'm honest. And think yourself lucky I don't mention the other Bodily Issues. What joy it is to be nearly 40 and undergoing hormonal civil war - is it any wonder we're all such sour, pike-faced old bags?)

Having explained myself, I waited expectantly for her to offer me some patches.
'Well,' she said. 'I think really you need to pick a date.'
'I thought I was. Um, today. Carpe diem and all that.'
'Ye-e-es,' she said in that way that people use when they want to sound thoughtful and well-meaning but are really saying, ''Oh God I've got one here who could get lost in a phone box.''
'It doesn't really work like that though,' she continued, eyes awash with pity at the hapless pariah before her. 'You need to set a date.'
'Oh. So, no patches today then?'
Smiles. Looks at me like I'm as naive as the Andrex puppy. 'You see, you haven't prepared. People have more of a success rate if they prepare.'
Haven't prepared! I've just spent the last few months wondering if my husband has cancer. I've never thought or read so much about smoking in my life - I am now virtually the Grim Reaper's Bitch. I sort of explain this.
'Fear really isn't the way. Really, I think for you writing down the pros and cons, filling in an Action Plan, would be a good idea. Seeing a smoking councillor. Recognising that those addiction patterns need changing. Working out how you're going to feed those little hungry birds in there.'
'Birds?'
'The little receptors in your brain. But I've got all the information you need here.' Busies herself collecting lots of photocopies and shiny cardlets with numbers on them. 'Take it home and have a look. You can always come back and we'll talk some more when you've set a date.'
At this point, I feel utterly depressed, and realise that if I really, really wanted to stop I'd just bloody do it.

As if that wasn't enough, I quickly, forlornly, mention the hirsutism and associated hormonal stuff - I can't face coming back again (how long before 'Munchausen's?' pops up on the computer screen?). It transpires that because I've had periods for 30 years (yes, I was only 10) and early menopause runs in my family, it's fully possible I am peri-menopausal and/or have polycystic ovaries. Tip top. Plus for all of that, I need to see the doctor.
Suddenly, for the first time in 24 hours, I really, really want a cigarette.

So today, I went back. A speculum and an internal later, and my GP's booking me in for a pelvic scan, which will take a few months to come through. While I'm lying there wondering if she thinks I have Munchausen's - and if, in fact, I actually do - I remember to ask her to check the wierd thing in my left breast, adding that I'm pretty confident it's probably all in my head. Stress and all that.
But no. Lumpy massy thing it is and she'd like it checked.
'Are you worried?' she asks.
This makes me smile. 'I've kind of gone beyond worry recently. What will be will be.' (While this may sound philosophical and Big of me, it's important to remember it's only because I'm so knackered I can't even seriously think about it.)
'OK. Well I think for what's it worth, I'll get it looked at pretty soon. Not that I'm worried, I'm pretty sure it is hormonal, but I think you've gone through enough recently. You've kind of been through hell, haven't you?'
If it weren't for the fact she'd probably certify me, I'd have wept, clung to her knees and begged her to take me home with her and make me some soup.
'I'll get you in in the next two weeks,' she says.

So, here we go again. Still, if I'm good and don't eat much in between now and then, at least I can treat myself to a scone while I'm there.