My reproductive organs had been tugged out. Part of my vagina had been cut out. I had been stitched up like cushion. I was injecting myself daily, my entire stomach was a mass of bruises, but the thing I was upsetting me most was the thought of having to go to the doctors.
I have never had very good luck when it came to doctors. I’ve moved location a lot in my life which means often I see new GPs and my notes are rarely read, my pain was always diminished, my records were lost. But my oncologist had insisted I visited to get my stitches checked by my GP. Obviously I wasn’t able to get an appointment with my GP, so I couldn’t have that saccharine “I fucking told you I was sick” moment, so I took an appointment with the only available doctor.
Throughout this whole experience, this was one of the luckiest breaks I received. I walked in to meet Dr B at the medical centre. The warmth she radiated was unbelievable. She had read through all of my notes and was unbelievably supportive. I have never had a more positive experience in a medical setting. She suggested I only saw her so she could follow my recovery. I was absolutely delighted by this.
The anxiety this alleviated was unbelievable. I genuinely don’t think I could have coped if I had been met with the GP experience I had grown accustomed to.
I felt so unbelievably fortunate.