‘There’s something wrong, and you’re not telling me.‘ Hubby said this morning.
I told him everything was fine, and not to worry, but he wasn’t having it.
He knows me too well.
I suppose his mind has gone into overdrive after I made an appointment with the breast clinic yesterday.
We were passing and after noticing that his INR paperwork was showing the marina address, I wanted to make sure the bimbo at the new health centre had updated our files accordingly. She was more concerned with getting her coffee than dealing with patients, and I nearly lost mine having to wait whilst she fobbed off the couple in front of us as to why they could not make an appointment to see the GP of their choice. So much for amalgamation of three surgeries to provide a better service for all.
Anyway, follow up appointments for my cancer are all to be done through the clinic, not my GP, and I am seeing the consultant who did my surgery on the 31st.
I’ve told him why, that I occasionally get a twinge similar to when they put the wire in for my op and I am a little stiff and uncomfortable on that side sometimes. There are no lumps either side, and I am just being cautious, especially after my locks feat and want to make sure I haven’t damaged myself! Apparently my official follow up would not be until November (one year after surgery) though I will have a mammogram in September.
No, the thing that is getting me down the most is this weight issue.
I have always been sensitive about mine, so was over the moon when it started to come off last year. That was until December when my radiotherapy treatment started and I had to put weight loss on hold. This has stalled it to put it mildly as I have yo-yoed ever since.
I hold my hand up and accept the ‘punishment’ when I’ve been naughty, careless or just plain silly with chocolate and biscuits etc, but to be honest, that three and a half pound gain after all that exercise on the locks knocked me, and my confidence, for six.
I tell myself we all have setbacks. I rationalise that muscle is denser than fat and I’ve toned up (it is and I have). I console myself that the pounds may not be shifting, but the inches are. I look at my body shape and revel in the fact that I actually have one now rather than a set of chins balanced on a ball of blubber on two tree trunks who cannot touch her toes or put her arms flat to her sides.
I laugh and joke about it as a reflex action to cover the hurt, if not bewilderment as to why things are going wrong. When we visited Mum last week, Sis and I were discussing jeans sizes, and I was pleased to say I could get into a size 14 now. Showing the waist gap in the size 16 I was wearing, Sis said that of course anyone could get into a size smaller of that style. Tact is not one of her virtues by the way, and as to any encouragement coming from that quarter, it’s unlikely. Another kick in the gut and knock to my confidence, just like when we were growing up.
I remind myself of how far I’ve come, not just with SW over the past eleven months, but since my redundancy in 2001 when I tipped the scales at a massive eighteen and a half stone.
Below is me last August on the boat and in Hamworthy cafe when we took Mum out.
and this is on our final trip in April.
Just seeing these photos have made me feel better (well, not the first one!) and more determined to get that evasive three stone certificate. I’ve still got 10 days, but accept it is pushing it.