Lightweight

I’ll start by saying I’m actually pretty healthy.

Having finally got my head around the concept of a calorie deficit, I am applying myself to maintaining one. I am a remarkably sloppy calorie counter, but I’m less fat now than those of you who only know me through this blog, have ever known me.

As we know, the NHS flies into extreme efficiency mode if they discover a ‘mass’ somewhere it shouldn’t be, somewhere they know there didn’t used to be one. This is where I currently find myself. A cyst they say. Let’s make sure they say, CT scan, MRI scan and let’s make it snappy.

So within days of the lump discovery I’ve had both….kind of, I’m an MRI featherweight.

I am, apparently, claustrophobic. First attempt at MRI ended in tears, I think the machine was a size M. Second attempt, I think this machine was a size XL, they got the most important bits, but I found that 50 minutes was all I could do, they wanted another 20. I really just couldn’t.

I’m mortified, not the sort of behaviour I expect from myself. Anyhow according to the operator, this last attempt along with the CT scan should be enough for the experts to examine and talk about me behind my back tomorrow. I’ll know what’s what soon after.

On the one hand, I’m super keen that the problem is a cyst, on the other hand, the whole episode has been so discombobulating, is a cyst worth it? If I had another hand, the deciding hand, of course it’s worth it, to be sure it’s not something that might have murderous intentions.

The MRI operator suggested that if I ever need another one I should just fuck off….no she didn’t, she said I should consider being sedated.

The shame.

Comfortingly, Frenchie was also an MRI failure first time she needed one. By contrast a close friend has done several, one that took two hours. Two effing hours! I’m almost in tears at the thought. She is a heavyweight MRI gladiator, but also confessed that she’s become a bit iffy around blood samples. All of which takes the edge of my feelings of humiliation and inadequacy.

Thank goodness for extremely kind NHS staff, sisters, supportive friends, and husbands who come along hoping to hold your hand.