The Idiot-Girl strikes again.
I am so stupid sometimes.
Sometimes, I think that it's no wonder I have cancer, why should someone who makes idiotic mistakes be here. Natural selection and all that.
Yes, I'm over-reacting and being hysterical and shortly I shall calm down, remind myself that I am not perfect, I have not caused the world to explode in flames and forgive myself somewhat.
But in the meantime I am still the woman who cannot arrive at an appointment that is written down clearly in neat writing, in my diary, on the correct page, written by me, at the correct time.
And if I cannot get something this simple right (it required me to walk round the corner, no more than about 3 minutes, to my GP's surgery - a place I know where it is. All I had to do was put my coat on and go.) then how the hell am I supposed to think of myself as a capable, competent person.
Here I am, contemplating going back to my work and I simply cannot if I can't rely on myself. I catalogue in an academic library. Cataloguing requires accuracy and getting the tiny details right - the tags, the punctuation, the spelling, the dates, all the little details - they've all got to be absolutely correct; because that's the only way you can later be sure that the book you have in your hand is the same as the one in the record. Or that the book you will find in our library is the one you want/isn't the same as another one you've already looked at. You get it right. And I was good at it. I was fucking good at it. And it's not that I've forgotten what to do. Like today, it's not like I forgot how to tell the time, or how to read, or how to walk. My brain just doesn't seem to retain, to remember, to connect things up in the right way. I can know what I'm supposed to be doing, I can think that I'm doing the right thing but then discover I'm not or I haven't. How the hell can I trust a damn thing I do?
So, anyway, I blithely arrived at the GP's surgery to check in for my 4.20pm appointment to be told that my appointment was at 4pm and I'd missed it. And I said 'no, I've got it written down' and fished out my filofax to show and lo and behold, it said 4pm; at which point I started crying (because this is so worth crying over - not). Well, yes it is, for the reasons above and also because I have permission to move to Ibandronate - the tablet form of Pamidronate - the bone strengthening drug I'm on; as long as my GP agrees (and what that means is, as long as they agree to meet the costs of it - well, they don't pay for it, the NHS pays for most of it and I pay the prescription charge of £6-whatever. I guess the local NHS Trust is somehow responsible for prescribing drugs that don't break the NHS bank) Anyway, I wanted to try and get that OK-d before I'm due for my next drip - which is a week on Friday - because of the old then-we-don't-have-to-stick-a-cannula-in-you......but I missed the appointment, her next available appointment is the 12th of March so I'm bollocksed.
This, of course, was also going to be the first time I met her properly as my new GP and now she'll think I'm a time-wasting nuisance. Brilliant first impression - no?
So, stupid, stupid, stupid.
So I cried, and apologised massively and walked home berating myself. It's funny, but since cancer I find myself fairly frequently walking down the street crying and/or talking to myself. No-one has ever yet asked me if I'm OK......
No, I'm not OK; but I'll survive a while longer.
Can I have a t-shirt with Idiot Grrrl on it?