The number you are trying to reach is busy

I really don't understand my GP surgery. Seriously. I'm confused.  It might be because I'm a novice and have little experience and I'm sure other people understand it much better.

I've been struggling to not be anaemic.  It's my age.  It's common.  I've seen 4 different GPs on 4 occasions over about 3 years.  It's not enough to understand how it all works.  The first time I was sent for a blood test the Long Suffering Husband tutted and rolled his eyes at me, "You have to ring up to find out the results of the blood test," he said.  I had assumed that they would contact you if there was a problem and we argued about it.  He made me phone.
"Hello. I, erm, well I had a blood test and I'm ringing...."
"You want the results?"
"Er, yes please."
"You pressed the wrong number, you have to go through to tests and results, number 4."
"Oh,"
"I can try and put you through, if you want."
"That would be very helpful, thank you."
I heard a huge sigh as she pressed buttons before the phone rang again.
"Hello, test results."
"Oh, hello, erm, I had a blood test, I'm sure everything is OK because you'd have let me know but can I just check..."
I barked back my name and date of birth.
"Yes. Right.  Well, you have to see the doctor."
"Oh, really, why's that then?"
"The doctor wants to discuss the results with you."
"Yes, I get that but why?"
"I can't tell you that, you'll have to see the doctor."

When I saw the GP she wagged her finger at me, as if it were in my control, "You're anaemic and not just a little bit."
I wasn't surprised. I'd been taking iron tablets that I bought.
"That won't be good enough. You can't buy iron tablets that are strong enough. I have to prescribe them for you."

My iron levels have gone up and down. One GP decided to test for Ferritin (a protein that stores and helps convert iron). The tests and results lady told me that I was NOT anaemic because my Hb level was fine but the doctor wanted to see me.
"You are still anaemic," said the doctor, folding his arms and staring at me over his half-moon glasses.
"Oh, when I rang up they told me I wasn't."
"Your ferritin level is low.  It's 13, that's not enough. You have nothing in reserve."
I nodded, wisely.  That just about summed up how I felt; nothing in reserve.
"If you don't take iron you'll just get anaemic again."
I was confused.  I thought he'd said I was anaemic.
I asked the normal range, which was between 41 and 400, which seems a huge difference to me. No wonder the GP seemed unsure.

A few weeks ago I was running low on my prescribed iron and before I put in my repeat prescription I thought I'd go and have a blood test to check (the last GP had given me a form to use when I felt I needed it). Two days later I had a letter in the post telling me that my blood tests were back and I needed to make an appointment. This was a surprise to me and the LSH, he'd convinced me that you had to ring up.

I rang.
"Hello.  I've had a letter asking me to make an appointment about my blood test."
"You'll have to ring on the day."
"Excuse me?"
"You'll have to ring on the day. I'm booking into November."
"I am ringing on the day."
"You'll have to ring on the day. I have no appointments."
"It is the day.  Well, it's a day. What day should it be?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
"Hello? Can I make an appointment, or not?"
"You'll have to ring on the day."
"You said that but I don't understand."
A hefty sigh preceded a snapped, "Eight am," and the phone was put down.

The LSH rolled his eyes again, when I told him.  "You have to ring at eight on the morning you want the appointment, How can you not know that?"
My only defence is that I'm a novice.

I tried.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I became very familiar with the electronic woman but never got through before I had to leave for work.

I ran out of iron tablets, so put in my repeat prescription.

I kept trying.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

Every day.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy

The pharmacy rang.
"Hello.  It's about your repeat prescription.  Your surgery won't issue it until you've made an appointment with them."

I kept trying.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I didn't have to go to work
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I was patient
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I began to feel a little anxious
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

The anxiety turned to irritability.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I checked my watch. Thirty five minutes had passed. Just as I wasn't expecting it the phone rang.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I held
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I was patient
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I needed a wee but I held.
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are  still busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I appreciated the addition of the extra word.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are  still busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

Wait!  What had happened to my extra word?  I started to hyperventilate.  Doctors are meant to make you better not cause a breakdown.

Ring Ring   
Ring Ring
Ring Ring

I psyched myself up to talk to a real person.

You have reached the medical centre press one for appointments.
beep
Enter your date of birth
beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
Enter your telephone number
beep..............

The receptionist seemed genuinely surprised at how grateful I was to talk to her; a real person, at last.
I had an appointment.

I saw another doctor I had never seen before.
"Hello, what can I do for you?"
"I've had a letter saying that you want to discuss my blood test results."
"Right.  What were they?"
I tried not to roll my eyes.
"I assume it was  because I'm anaemic but I'm not sure because you refused my repeat prescription."
She tapped the computer.
"Yes, you're anaemic.  It's 8 and you're not allowed to go below 7."
I did roll my eyes because I've been below 7 before.
"You've only got one to go. So, why are you anaemic.?"
I couldn't help thinking that she was meant to tell me that but I gave it my best guess and mumbled something about my age, menopause and avoiding hysterectomies.
"That's OK then," she smiled.  "What was it before?"
"I have no idea. Maybe you could look it up, as I don't keep numbers like that in my head."
I think I was polite but I'm not sure.
"I don't understand this.  It was normal.  Why were you prescribed iron in the first place?"
"It was because the ferritin level was low."
She suddenly looked interested, tapping at the computer and mumbling, 'ferritin,' over and over. "Were you given medication for it?"
"Iron tablets."
"Right, well, it's 3 now. I must write that down. Do you mind if I type while the machine takes your blood pressure?"

I took my prescription to the pharmacy and did some shopping while they got it ready. The pharmacist was very nice.
"I know you've paid the prescription charge but if you just buy these then they will cost you £3 less. Would you like to do that?"
"I didn't know you could just buy them."
"Oh yes.  It's only an iron supplement."
He confirmed that they were no different from the ones I had been taking before I started having confusing conversations with doctors.  I can't help feeling that my appointment could have gone to someone that really needed it.

There's nothing wrong with your personality - it's your mind that's gone.

When you are a menopausal teacher life can be occasionally tricky, especially if you don't sleep and suffer from serious leg cramp.  I think it's important to carry on as normal, for life to be perfectly fine but every now and then holding it all together becomes impossible and you fall apart in front of the Long Suffering Husband.

He looks at you quizzically. He tries to work out what he can fix.  He looks for his menopausal wife manual and flicks through it's million pages but there is no diagram and he is stumped.  You try to help.  You explain through irrational tears, "It's just me.  Ignore me.  I'm fine.  I just need....*sob*....sorry..... I just need a new personality."
"There's nothing wrong with your personality.  It's your mind that's gone," he pronounces.
You laugh and cry at the same time.
He hugs you and says, "I can't work this one out.  Is it good or bad?  Have I said something wrong? But you seem to be laughing.  Or are you crying?"
You concede that you might be hysterical and curse that stupid wandering womb again.

The trouble is that he could be right.  I found the allotment keys in the fridge again and have started to shout out in public.

Last week watching Bridget Jones. Made complete fool of self in front of whole cinema. Just as character was about to throw phone out of  window I shouted, "Don't do it.  You'll need it later." V. mortifying.  It's a great film if there isn't a woman who has lost her mind in the cinema with you.  The worst part was that I felt such a fool I spent the rest of the film sobbing.

It's been a busy week at work.  The school band sounds awful because a few key players have left and those that remain are not very confident, which means my evenings and weekends are spent arranging new music.  Our choir are going to sing at the Royal Albert Hall in aid of Barnardo's and although it's a massed choir there is an opportunity for a few soloists.  Would-be-soloists have to send an audition tape.  19 out of 36 choir members wanted to audition, which meant that my breaks and lunchtimes were spent recording them.  Who needs to eat? The year 1/2 children are trying to sing around the world in 80 songs and we have reached Russia (Kalinka and Minka), which meant that my lessons were spent Kossak dancing, in a music room with the atmospheric conditions of a sauna.
For the Barnardo's concert we have been asked to provide a nativity scene.  I had visions of children dressing up and walking to their place to make a silent tableau.  My friend from another school said, "That's really cool but my head will be cross with me because she'll want to ask why we don't do things like that."
"Oh," I said, "I don't know why it's us.  They asked and I said, 'yes'
Apparently, that's where I'm going wrong.
Anyway, when I got home yesterday evening, I checked my emails.
"How's the nativity play coming on? Do you have a title and a list of cast yet?"
It blinked at me menacingly.  My fingers twitched over the keys as I thought about the only nativity-type story I've written.  Could I really ask primary school children to perform, "Mary was a slapper," in public? Marywas a slapper

Youth Orchestra Members claimed to have found my brain

The LSH came up with a plan. He decided that I needed a break so he took me to a bookshop and fed me.  It seemed to be working when I suddenly shouted, "Watch her!"
Everyone looked at me, as a small toddler headed for the door unseen.
The LSH looked at my son, nodded and said, "See?  Mind totally gone."

The Blue Lead is in the Car

I've become a cliche. This is a very bad thing for a writer. Cliches are to be avoided at all costs; whole days can be wasted looking at something and trying to describe it in a unique way.

This has snuck up on me when I wasn't looking. In the third year juniors I was rather fond of the Jenny Joseph poem about wearing purple and eating three pounds of sausages in one go and I vowed not to become a grumpy old lady who shouted at children on buses. I wasn't going to die my hair blue or pink, drag my worldly possessions round in a shopping trolley or have a poodle that produced white poos. But times change and the stereotypical old lady of my youth would be unique and quite funky now. That poem changed a whole generation of old folk; it gave them an alternative and now they're all wearing satin sandals and running their stick along public railings. You might have read the local news story about the pensioner who was caught by a speed camera doing 134 mph on his mobility scooter. Well, that is just what a good poem can lead to. What we need is a poem to help prevent fifty year old menopausal empty nesters becoming a cliche because although desperate to avoid it, it becomes a crushing inevitability.

There was no way I was going to become one of 'those' women, who fell apart when their children grew up. I had too much life to live; my own thoughts and feelings and the very idea of being bothered by a couple of teenagers not living at home anymore was ridiculous. And then my lady bits headed south, the hormones started to have a private party with rules I don't understand, my blood dumped it's iron like an anti-popeye and my bladder became allergic to trampolines making the resolution impossible to keep.  This is how on the morning after my son's A level results I came to be sitting on the edge of the bed doing the ugly sobbing thing.

The Long Suffering Husband looked at me sympathetically and said, "Well I'm not sure what to say. I don't know how to fix it."

"You.....*sob*...can't fix it.....*sob*......I'm broken and that's all there is to it....*sob*....I'm not a bloody car .... an oil change isn't going to do a sodding thing."

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to help."

"I know it's just that I'm so........*sob*....lonely and I'm useless. What's the point of me now? I can't even make a jelly without spilling it all over the fridge.....or make bunting without breaking the sewing machine."

"Can I just say?," he interrupted, "Did you break the sewing machine?"

"Well no but that's not the point. Other people can do things."

"How do you know? They might break the sewing machine or spill jelly in the fridge, you just don't know about it."

"Why would they do that?... *sob* None of the people I know are as useless as me. I ........*sob* ........just *sob* .......     can't believe ............ *huge choking sob*....... I think I might be premenstrual."

The ridiculousness of the situation suddenly struck me. Do you remember the last time you laughed and cried at the same time? For me, before then, it was when I was bored in the school summer holidays and watching a Shirley Temple film. I remember it because of the pain. Your body stabs you in the throat as it struggles to cope with conflicting emotions.

The LSH laughed and said, "Yeah, you think? The problem is you've been premenstrual for two years." He ducked quickly but big fat silent sad tears had taken over and I didn't even have the energy to throw something.

"It's why I've got no friends.....and now with both children gone I'll have nobody."

"You've got me," he said.

"Oh, but you're really annoying me. You keep saying things. You think you're being funny but ........"

"Sorry. You should say."

I protested that it would be cruel to tell him everytime he annoyed me, as, if I'm honest, it really isn't his fault.

He suggested a code word and then he would know I was irritated but it wouldn't feel like nagging.

I pulled myself together and started handing things to the LSH, for him to use his engineering skills to pack the car, filling every tiny space. (Warning: holiday blogs coming up). He kept wittering on about a blue dog lead, which was irritating me because I didn't think we had a blue dog lead. If only we'd agreed on a code word.

He burst back into the house, flushed with joy and said, "The blue lead is in the car."

That was it. Why have a word when you can have a phrase? 

It worked too. A six hour car drive can  give rise to many moments of irritation but if you respond to each one with, "the blue lead is in the car," the situation becomes something to have a chuckle over.

EU make me laugh

Next week I will have been married to the Long Suffering Husband for 25 years. We are planning a trip to Vienna and neither of us can get excited about it because we are both too old and tired.  We thought a trip to a place whose history resonates with Nazi occupation would be the perfect celebration of 25 years of marriage. We did consider Berlin but we didn't want to join the politicians making topical Hitler references.

The plan was to go in half term but I checked my diary and we are going next weekend. I'm not sure how this happened and although I have tried blaming the LSH, he helpfully reminded me that I booked the flights and hotel. This is what happens. To quote Victoria Wood on menopause, "there's only 17 minutes in any month when anyone can get any sense out of me."

So here we are, neither of us looking forward to a trip away; me, with my hot flushes, other unmentionable menopause symptoms and a tendency to wet myself when I laugh or sneeze; him, with his back, general tiredness and the wrong glasses for any occasion; about to go to another European Country when the rest of England is talking about cutting ourselves off from Europe, hoping to take themselves back to a 1950's style utopian bubble.

Our local pub has suddenly decorated itself with a flag, which could have been placed there by it's current unhappy customers as a message to the unpopular owner but I am taking as a personal message to drink somewhere else.

Watching the EU referendum campaign play out on social media is funny and terrifying in equal measures. The LSH keeps reminding me that the politicians only promised a vote and they don't have  act in the outcome and I remember that Greece voted to leave but still seem to be very much part of the EU.

There is something about the campaign that is bringing out the nutters. #BorisisBananas has been trending on Twitter for two days and my Facebook feed is filled with pictures like this:

"Oh dear people who want to leave the EU really are silly, aren't they?" I said waving my phone in the LSH's direction.

He sighed. "Wait a minuite, I've got the wrong glasses."

"Because Indian trains  so run in Europe," I persisted, not bothering to wait for him to find the right pair.

"Mmmmm. Probably the wrong 

gauge."

He is quite funny.