So. Monday morning. Despite the horror of the night before, I didn't want to get up. Avoidance I'm sure. R got up before me but I was prompted out of bed by texts from people from work, who I decided to be honest with. No point lying and IF this was a false alarm, I didn't want them to think I'd been skiving.
I'd moved a month and a half previously so didn't have a GP locally. Fortunately, there was an NHS walk in centre across the road, which we went to. I was seen very quickly and for probably the first time ever, wasn't embarrassed to undress in front of a medical professional. The nurse practitioner was nice, but horrified me by calling the lump massive. Numbly, I dressed while she started making phone calls. When I emerged from behind the curtain, she suggested I go and get my partner. This was becoming scarier by the minute. She made her calls, explained that I had to be referred by a GP and then discussed with R where I should register.
As we left, I went to the loo and cried. I'd tried to convince myself there was nothing really wrong, but things were becoming formal. Again, numb, we drove to his GP's. The receptionist made me an appointment for 4 that afternoon. 6 hours to kill.
The GP was a formal, grey haired, older woman. Careful with her words, she reassured me that 9 out of 10 lumps were cysts. She instructed me to give a form to the receptionist to use to register me for an appointment at the breast clinic. This seemed to take forever to do. Finally, I was given an appointment in 8 days. Given that the time frame required by NHS standards was 2 weeks, I tried, and failed, to feel grateful.
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