We walk into the specialists office and sit down.
Boo wanders around, picking up anatomical models of hands and hearts completely fascinated and thankfully enthralled so we might even have the sub ten minutes that we have waited 4 weeks for the appointment to get these test results in silence.
But to be fair, I haven’t even been able to factor in a fucking appointment for 4 months so we can’t blame the doctor for that shemozzle. My life, she fucking busy, yo.
‘You have lost more weight’
‘Nah, it is pretty stable’
He raises an eyebrow. What the fuck do I know, I don’t even weigh myself anymore… but my clothes feel pretty much the same except for my food baby, she would be around fucking 34 weeks today FUCK ME DEAD and I just went up a motherfucking bra cup but down a band size howonearthdoesthathappen but my body is infuckingsane.
So he checks out my scans from the last few months and is all hmmmmmm.
And we are all anticipatory two eyebrows up and one eye on Boo to make sure he isn’t nomming on the very expensive hearts and hands over yonder.
Then a whole lot of words came out of his mouth and there was this whooshing sound in my head and I was smiling a lot like I do when I am trying to make sure that everyone is OK when a tsunami is hitting but I don’t want anyone to panic JUST FUCKING YET because if we all just smile and say OK a lot then maybe this shit isn’t actually happening and maybe I wasn’t right and OMG Kelley it is not as if you didn’t know that this was going to happen but hearing the words come out of his mouth hit you like a fucking train and well…
there you fucking go.
So my neck is fucked. Bone on bone, advanced osteoarthritis. Lets get onto a physio and do some exercises and then cortisone injections before the scary shit.
Gastroparesis. It is pretty fucking bad. Yeah. I know. We are talking botox, darling.
And the big bad fucker, Dysautonomia. Referral to a specialist in the city (the Yellow Wiggles doctor to be exact) to find out what flavour I have. I am placing my bets on my own special brand of rainbow paddle pop. Because as anyone that has known me for any longer than 5 minutes, I never EVER fit in a nice neat box.
Smile and breathe. Smile and breathe.
He prints out the CT shizzle for the physio and a referral for more bloods and urges me to see my useless good for nothing OMGIFITOLDYOUHISNAMEYOUWOULDSOFUCKINGLAUGH GI doc and I promise I will.
And we are all pleasant and smiling and MPS shakes his hand but I can’t because I can’t meet his eye and he knows I can’t because we both know that I am on the verge of tears and my boy is just there completely oblivious to the BIG NEWS and still so engrossed.
I collect my sheets of paper and my diagnoses and my new world and wander out into the carpark. Hand MPS the keys because it is dusk now and my eyes don’t work well in this light (dysautonomia, soon I will be able to spell it without checking) and we go and feed my parents animals because my dad is in surgery right now.
My life, she fucking busy, yo.
This is good news. I know. Years and years of searching for an answer. Finally I have one and a sort of path to follow.
But right now I feel a bit shocked and a little bit scared.
And a whole lotta overfuckingwhelmed.