The problem with my feet started out as, "that's odd" but by today had become, "what the FUCK - I'm hobbling down Clapham high street, CRYING" having gradually taken on the flavour of "I really should do something about this..." over the course of the last month. Now that I was struggling to walk, and having been deterred by the £130 it would cost me to spend an hour with the local podiatrist, I finally went to my GP today.
She was nice - like, really nice. Not "I want to lick you" nice, but some doctors are so jaded that they can barely muster the energy to listen to your complaint and mostly just advise you to make another appointment (with their colleague) if it hasn't cleared up/gone down/stopped burning in a fortnight. To be fair, most GPs find me quite exciting: end-stage renal failure is more interesting than gastroenteritis I suppose, but I wasn't even wearing my renal hat today and still the doctor was friendly, attentive and very energetic despite probably having sat through a morning's worth of ear-ache and hypercondria already. She heartily agreed with my self-Google diagnosis of inflammation of the tendons and advised rest and "suitable footwear" (I'm NOT wearing hiking boots, as suggested by a podiatrist with whom I spoke on the phone) before prescribing a great thwack of anti-inflammatory Ibuprofen, topped up with paracetamol as and when needed.
I was nervous about taking pain medication on a regular basis: I don't want to get hooked, I'm not a celebrity. Also, I'm quite...let's say slight of frame, and too much pain medication can send me a bit loopy - taking Tramadol feels like I've died and gone to heaven, and heaven is Dermot O'Leary's hot-tub. But the lovely doctor assured me I'd be fine - and she was right. I have only taken one of the giant, hot-pink tablets so far but they are marvellous. The pain has practically disappeared, and having had it for a month, this is no small achievement. I am hooked up to Dermot as I write (do one, Dermy - there's a new physiological complaint in town) but I am super stoked to stand up and get my walk ooown when this session comes to an end.
In other news: my building got burgled - which was shit - but I had doubled locked my front door - which was good. I am currently stressing about my 5,000 word case study but it is due in on my birthday so my 27th will be licence - nay, mandate - to celebrate. I am mired in job anxiety, as in: I-have-a-shit-one-and-no-money-and-I-want-a-better-one, but I have to keep reminding myself that until my essay is polished off, job-hunting will have to wait. The problem is, now that my career is no longer dictated by my dialysis regime, I am growing more and more frustrated that it is not going in the right direction and I am not very patient. I am also very poor, and bottles of St Tropez Gradual Tanning Fair to Medium don't grow on trees. However, every journey begins with a single step, and now I can take mine, pain-free.
She was nice - like, really nice. Not "I want to lick you" nice, but some doctors are so jaded that they can barely muster the energy to listen to your complaint and mostly just advise you to make another appointment (with their colleague) if it hasn't cleared up/gone down/stopped burning in a fortnight. To be fair, most GPs find me quite exciting: end-stage renal failure is more interesting than gastroenteritis I suppose, but I wasn't even wearing my renal hat today and still the doctor was friendly, attentive and very energetic despite probably having sat through a morning's worth of ear-ache and hypercondria already. She heartily agreed with my self-Google diagnosis of inflammation of the tendons and advised rest and "suitable footwear" (I'm NOT wearing hiking boots, as suggested by a podiatrist with whom I spoke on the phone) before prescribing a great thwack of anti-inflammatory Ibuprofen, topped up with paracetamol as and when needed.
I was nervous about taking pain medication on a regular basis: I don't want to get hooked, I'm not a celebrity. Also, I'm quite...let's say slight of frame, and too much pain medication can send me a bit loopy - taking Tramadol feels like I've died and gone to heaven, and heaven is Dermot O'Leary's hot-tub. But the lovely doctor assured me I'd be fine - and she was right. I have only taken one of the giant, hot-pink tablets so far but they are marvellous. The pain has practically disappeared, and having had it for a month, this is no small achievement. I am hooked up to Dermot as I write (do one, Dermy - there's a new physiological complaint in town) but I am super stoked to stand up and get my walk ooown when this session comes to an end.
In other news: my building got burgled - which was shit - but I had doubled locked my front door - which was good. I am currently stressing about my 5,000 word case study but it is due in on my birthday so my 27th will be licence - nay, mandate - to celebrate. I am mired in job anxiety, as in: I-have-a-shit-one-and-no-money-and-I-want-a-better-one, but I have to keep reminding myself that until my essay is polished off, job-hunting will have to wait. The problem is, now that my career is no longer dictated by my dialysis regime, I am growing more and more frustrated that it is not going in the right direction and I am not very patient. I am also very poor, and bottles of St Tropez Gradual Tanning Fair to Medium don't grow on trees. However, every journey begins with a single step, and now I can take mine, pain-free.
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| Just to give you a bit of scale....if Infernos made pain meds |
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