So I had a few days of feeling sorry for myself and catching up with sleep and I was starting to feel better. I even ate a frog... I should explain that shouldn't I! to eat one's frog is a term we use for getting something you don't want to do over and done with. After telling the lady I ride for I don't want to ride anymore, I had called her and then yesterday morning I went to see her. She was lovely, having had and recovered from cancer herself she simply hugged me and told me how worried she had been. I then went and caught Ramba and took him for a short ride; he was an angel almost to the point of saying "I'm sorry I was an idiot".
I then went to Tesco to get some bits and pieces to make a special dinner for my husband. Try and make up for being such a nightmare this week. By the time I had got home and prepared it though I was so very tired, and as I was due to go out for the evening i decided to get an hours sleep before I went. Self preservation and all.
Walking up the stairs I passed the post and saw I had a letter from the hospital. Assuming it was an appointment I absentmindedly picked up and opened it: mistake. It wasn't; it was a letter telling me results from the day series. My cortisol levels had been over ten times what is considered normal before I started the metyrapone treatment a week ago. The letter also says that the current dose has nearly halved that but suggests I up the dose to three tablets four times a day; it is still far too high.
Cue meltdown. Here on paper is proof that the tumours are well and truly active and I am far too tired to absorb this info in anything like a calm way. I had been doing so well for the last couple of days. I had managed to go into the city despite the want to go into reclusiveness and because of the generosity of my grandparents purchased an ipad2 from which I now type. I also went Segway Rallying - a wedding gift from dear friends and had an hour where I didn't think about being ill at all. But all this comes crashing down with one letter. The fact it is a letter dated two days ago sort of stings too. I just can't help thinking I'm not worthy of the phone call. Dead women walking here, don't waste your breath? I can see now that logically it isn't urgent news and that if they had considered it so they would have rung but I like to think of my doctors as knowing me as a person, they saw my wedding pictures and the article in the Mirror. So I suppose in such a sensitive state I felt betrayed and hurt. I felt like I was getting back on my hands and knees from being face down in the mud and life just went and gave me a swift kick in the ribs!
Some good luck next please.