They don’t half move quick when they have to, the NHS. From being referred by my GP on the 6th, it was a non-stop ride through tunnels (MRI scanners), hoops (CT scanners), squishers (the mammogram) gloop (ultrasound scans) and weird machines that sound like a stapler (whatever the biopsy machine is called) to an operating theatre on the 27th. Within one visit you become perversely used to stripping off in front of anyone and everyone. You want to see my boobs? Sure thing – just let me get rid of this annoyingly obstructive jumper. Someone else need to come in while I’m lying on a bed naked from the waist up? Why not? More the merrier….
Each time I convinced myself I was fine. It was only fibroids – the half hour MRI scan is just a precaution after all… It’s only with hindsight that you realize that if they were so convinced it was just a cyst or just fibroids you wouldn’t be going near the MRI machine. Lying on a bed with your boobs hanging through specially cut holes. Dignity goes out the window.
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