To have any chance of making sense of this continuation of my personal review of my year in 2010, please refer first to Twenty Ten (Part One): Hard Cheese.
My follow-up appointment with my psychiatrist was due mid-March. Scornfully following his advice to pull myself together and get a life in the month that had passed since our first (and to be last) meeting I had actually begun to feel quite a bit better in myself, but my ever decreasing lung capacity meant that even if I'd wanted to go, I wouldn't physically have been able to. I could barely walk to the corner shop and back.
Yak Shaving vs. Bureaucrazy
I had a letter from the psychiatrist's secretary inviting me to the meeting, so I thought I'd email her to let her know I wouldn't be going and why. Much easier than dragging myself out to the post box, I thought. Little did I realise then the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was to follow as I set about shaving this particular yak.
Although her email address wasn't included in the letter I knew from my work that the mental health trust, like most organisations, uses a standard email address format:
firtstname.secondname@nameoflondonborough.nhs.uk
No problem! Oh, wait. The email bounced. I tried again:
firstname.secondname@nameofmentalhealthtrust.nhs.uk
That bounced, too. I looked up the names of the team managers on the trust's website and emailed them, along with the 'communication team' asking for the secretary's email address and explaining that I preferred to email her because of my poor (physical) health.
Several auto-replies later told me that three of them had already resigned or otherwise left the trust's employment. Then another two came in saying the same thing. I went higher up the food chain and emailed their managers, one of whom - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for - copied in two more managers to ask them to contact me.
By this time I had received and answered an unwanted, unwelcome and totally unexpected call from none other than my psychiatrist. I asked why he was calling me. It turned out that the communications team had assumed that my 'poor health' meant that I might be in danger of killing myself (which actually wasn't far off the truth at this point) and so decided - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for - to place an emergency call to my psychiatrist, who then called me. He did, however, give me his secretary's email address (it turned out that she helpfully uses a shortened version of her first name for her email, unlike on her letters).
When I finished the call I went to email the secretary to confirm what I had told my psychiatrist, that I would not be attending any further meetings with him because, apart from providing me with her email address he had been no bloody help at all. One of the other managers had also now replied to me saying that he knew that my psychiatrist had just spoken with me and gave me the secretary's telephone number, which I had already - instead of simply giving me the email address I asked for.
I decided to make a formal complaint, as that is what gets me off what I do here. Of course, five months later, the chief executive wrote to me to say how sorry she was that I felt that no one wanted to provide me with an email address, but not to uphold my complaint on the grounds that the team manager had emailed me to give me the phone number (that I already had) after being asked by someone else to give me the email address I asked for. Coincidentally, last week, I received information about who has accessed my patient record, when and why. Interestingly, the team manager and the person whose email I wanted both accessed my patient record shortly after I sent the first email and several hours before the team manager actually emailed me (the why is unclear as it's a coded reference).
Oliver! vs. Pickabook
Speaking of complaints, I also got into a bit of a pickle with Pickabook. After that musical romp I had a stiff neck, a bad back and was short of breath. Another x-ray or and a big fat needle in my back later I was feeling sick, sore and sapped.
Meanwhile, the price of cheese in the UK doubled, nightmares fell by 50% and (presumably due to a price-related cheese shortage) cheese rolling in the UK was outlawed.
Various doctors still hadn't been able to diagnose me with enough certainty to prescribe any treatment, so I headed off for a CT scan. The good news was that I didn't have anything really horrible and/or potentially deadly, the bad news was that they still didn't know what was wrong with my lung and that keyhole surgery would be necessary.
Turtles vs. Tortoise
To matters worse, much worse, United contrived to snatch a one goal victory and an aggregate draw (meaning defeat on the away goals rule) from the jaws of an assured three goal victory and safe passage through to the semi-finals of the European Champions League.
Self-styled football hooligan Luke Slater summed up the evening so perfectly that I had to beat him over the head with a baby turtle. So-called journalist and self-styled football expert Daniel Taylor, on the other hand, told Sir Alex that he needed to spend big if he wanted to bring further success to United.
My sour mood was lifted somewhat the following day thanks to Marvin Preuss who slapped me around the ears with a gigantic tortoise:
Tommy Steele vs. Chris the Crafty Cockerney
Five days later I was told to attend the Heart Hospital in London in three days time for surgery on my lung, prompting a lovely conversation on Identi.ca covering a whole range of medical complaints and procedures including diarrhoea, halitosis, Tommy Steele, anaesthetics, hypnosis, funerals, cirrhosis and, of course, cheese.
I'm pleased to say everything went well and the price of matured dairy products fell as freshly-plucked cheese flooded the market. Although rather than keyhole surgery, I had a regular thoracotomy, which would extend the recovery time - something which escaped my Dad, who a week after visiting me in hospital, phoned to ask if I was going back to work the following week. No Dad. I'm having my stitches taken out tomorrow.
With hindsight, of course, I do wish I'd followed the sage Andy C's advice to take six months off work to recover fully, but at the time it just felt impossible. Especially as the doctors still hadn't been able to rule out that I might have (latent) tuberculosis.
Everything is permissible.
