I've been sat up for hours trying to drug myself into sleep. My lovely and slightly mental GP thinks I might be getting a bit high, and said to see the psychiatrist. I tried, but they changed my appointment three times, and now it's some time in August. I know it's only a few weeks away, but that's a long time away when you're only getting two or three hours sleep, if that. Dr H, the GP, gave me temazepam to try and help, but honestly, I'm not feeling any effect from them. What is wrong with me? Manic depression is miserable. I feel all agitated.
And to cap it all, my chest is playing up. It really, really hurts. I think that hideous infection is back.
Did I mention that my lovely neighbour slashed her wrists and died a sad and lonely death. Noone realised she was gone, and she lay on the floor for days before they found her. I pray that she's now found peace.
I'm trying to make a battle plan to attack my TS. My surgeon, Mr G S, mentioned a procedure they might be able to do before the transplant. Hopefully, he will get the go ahead and just do something to help me. I'm getting so desperate.
I miss my old surgeon, DH. He's a big important professor now, but he was the most lovely chap. And still quite handsome, even for an older fella, lol. I had a bit of a crush on a surgeon called Alisdair. Oh my word, he had that silver fox thing down to a T. There are advantages to being ill. You get to drool over handsome doctors hahaha.
Nite nite, good breathing, and sweet dreams X
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