So the boys are dropped off at Nana's house and we enter the wonderful world of the NHS (I actually do think its wonderful in parts. Just not this part)
After a 2 hour wait on a Gestapo designed plastic chair I am just on the verge of passing
out with the pain in my breast when the door to Narnia opens and we hear "Donna Foxcroft?"
"That's me" I say to David then immediately wonder why (we have been together for 3 years. He knows my name.) Despite my increasing pain, which is reaching fever
point by now, I offer the nurse a wan smile because i'm a nice person and thats what nice people do. I think they call it the British stiff upper lip. The old keep calm and carry on spirit for which we are famed. I am asked to rate my pain. My head says 9,
it's a 9, please God tell her it's a 9,
"About a 7" I lie. I can't look at David. I know he will be shooting me daggers (I think they may be landing in my left breast such is the pain). Damn the gung-ho British spirit.
"You'll be put down
the list now" he says "Why did you say 7?"
I can't answer. I'm in too much pain.
As luck would have it my soon to be sister in law is a stroke nurse at the same hospital and manages to amend my pain rating to reflect the fact that I "look like
boiled shite" (thanks for that) and am sweating profusely.
So the doctor comes in and asks to examine the offending boob. He asks if i mind if he touches it. I do not. He touches it. Aaaaaaagh I mind. I really mind. It hurt. A lot.
that it is more than likely an abscess but protocol dictates that I am referred to the Linda McCartney centre which is attached to the hospital the following day.
I am given anti-biotics and informed that the LM Centre will call me with an appointment
We collect our boys and head home....