Post 511: The tattoo parlour and a wonderful tribute.
But first I should add to the replies yesterday about Doctor- locum’s and Patient notes which seem to be to separate worlds in the cancer arena.
Overnight I had prepared in my head two different replies to my situation regarding the diabetes blood test and the results it gave.
At 8am I was editing and printing a letter for my optician explaining what the HbA1c results were, so that he could independently make up his mind where we are going with my blurry eye, amd the contact details of my “new” swarm of locums bottled up in the “new” doctors surgery I’m currently being given bad advice from. I duly printed it ready to hand it to the ‘Man’ at Boots that will help me.
While sitting there happy to be creating a soothing responce I had also to write a slam-dunk of a reply to the locum that spoke to me last night and which called my blood results wrongly. Wrongly because as you have all experienced and explained very carefully (that on their own) the number indicate ‘this’ but when referred through the vision of the patient-notes it’s ’that’ and a very different conclusion is reached.
The simple fact was complex as am I and as you (my reading Massiff) are too.
I realise that the locum had an easy time telling me how bad my diabetes was on the phone but I’m the worlds worst at saying what I think and feel at moments like this when I’m being told things by experts. Inside I feel like I should stop the conversation and reply and fill in that my history is complex and with (as you’ve replied already about) hormone treatment and being a late night snacker and had by no means had a ‘fasting’ blood test that my bloods are not what they seem.
This letter was printed and signed ready to be hand delivered to the doctor’s practice group reception later this morning.
Thank you for your replies about your experiences at your own practices. It’s not comforting to know of all your troubles regarding the subject of mediation when looking at the relatively uncomplicated blood test which becomes a complicated animal when our histories are applied to the readings.
Thank you.
The next thing while in the tattoo parlour was another text from the ‘new’ practice about inviting me for another drug, Statins, for my new problem that the blood-test shows. And that’s on top of my so called diabetes.
Statins?
And here we go around again.
On wheat earth does my medical situation require medication for my next 20 years on this planet. You have already explained it well in the blog replies yesterday, I’m not worried about the next twenty years with my prostate cancer doing its best to beat me into submission.
This I didn’t reply to yet. It’s a text. I’m not getting out of bed for another text about my need for a new drug just because in isolation my bloods tell my health this or that way.
They can go to hell in a hand cart with all these submissions from their hidden lairs in the cellars of the ‘new’ practice.
Oh boy will it ever end?
I’m fed up with the bloody situation and wish I had not stirred up this hornets nest with that innocent upgrade on my prescription for new glasses. If only I had not asked for the HbA1c in the first place my life would not be shined up by doctors that have never seen me advising me of my own health and all the benefits that the drugs they want me on will keep me well right into my 80’s )in twenty years time).
Bugger them all and their teachings. I’m not doing anything till I sit down with someone who understands me and my body.
Moving on.
We arrived at the tattoo parlour around 10 am and I was made comfortable in a lovely chair where I was close to my Darling who was in the big-chair.
Firstly I have to say that the parlour is a shop beside a pub and the side wall of clear glazed windows allow shoppers and drinkers sipping their drinks opposite (if it stops raining ha ha) so the seat I had was all seeing and I loved it. This was not in a seedy place where mystery surrounds every needle and scary graphic, this was a shop like any other shop; bright and crisp and even.
So I got familiar with my phones kindle beside my Darling whose arm was under the inky pen of a true artist.
I was happy.
I was thinking that the places where we sat will be swapped next week when I’m in the artists chair and my Darling can look on and enjoy the peace and quiet of the tattoo parlour.
I really never thought I’d destroy my beautiful self with a dirty tattoo, ever, ever, ever. That’s for thugs and the guy and gals from the armed services only. Not for weekly people like my Darling and I. It’s not us. It’s an unnecessary burden for my skin that is holding together my poor body hurting from the cancer and older (third) age.
But, I’m delighted to have next weeks inking of a leafy design of a vine wrapping a blue prostate ribbon with the similar blue lymphoma periwinkle flower at the top of the leafy vine.
A tribute to my Daughter in law and I.
She starts her daily trudge to radiotherapy next week and is all prepared for it. The tattoo is in a small way my way of saying, I’m with you on this. “We will win”.
The graphic is lovely and will adorn or disfigure my fore arm, depending on your persuasion.
My Darling was quiet in that seat while in the bright light surrounding us in the fish-bowl parlour with the shoppers walking by and all were interested at to who and what was going on in there and especially on ‘that chair’. She was absolutely made up with her tribute to her Brother Kev on the underside of her forearm. It’s very special to her.
Ask someone who has had any inking and they’ll tell you the story behind each tattoo. It’s not by accident and mostly a very personal thing they’ve done. I’ve learned a lot since we have made a decision to label our bodies with a personal message of love.
After the cling film was wrapped over the newest tattoo in the world, we wandered off to that café up the way for a plate of lunch.
We were full of talk about this and that and the Brie, bacon and cranberry toastie on large malted bread was to die for. On the way out I couldn’t refuse a slice of cake to take away. We actually wondered how it was going to get in the take-out box but it did, just, and long after we got home after work was done later in the afternoon when the rain had stopped, I got to taste that maple and cherry sponge. It was divine, thank you very much. I didn’t get a photo, it was gone before I even thought camera. Ha ha. I foresee more diabetes trouble ahead.
We went to bed early after we both had a big day and restless night the night before so I took my Haribos to bed with my pills and dreamed of healthier days when a doctors practice was something like a tattoo parlour; a place for someone else.
Tomorrow’s another TV day and I’ll chill with the cat. I haven’t seen much of Mr Vicious this week; I’ll make home comfortable on my lap and tell him about my second tattoo coming up and what it means to me.
I’m sure Mr V won’t mind at all, so long as I stay still and leave him to scratch or sleep on my shorts.
Take care.
Sleep well if you can.
Enjoy the sun and rain if you’re on holiday and until next time, I love you all lots.
PS
I’ve applied for more counselling at the hospice. I’ve been very emoche lately.
You can’t sit beside me but I know you’re all there.
