I found Narnia – and it was terrifying

Okay. So. As you know, I have been struggling with my health recently.

I have been a bit of a pass-the-parcel patient of late. I went to the doctor, who referred me to a gyno, who sent me to have a transvaginal ultrasound. This was conducted by a kindly, older Dr (who was the spitting image of Dr Mark Sloan from diagnosis murder) and his skandinavian Victoria’s-secret-model-worthy assistant, Yanka.

Sadly my appointment fell during the great blizzard of 2018, when even London was smothered in a blanket of snow. I had never been to this particular hospital before so I foolishly relied on google maps to navigate me there safely. The words “I instantly regret this decision” have never been more appropriate. Google sent me via the quickest route which happened to be through a forest. A forest that was very hilly and covered in ice and snow and with very few signage points. And yet, strangely, quite a few tres chic lampposts.
It was as if Narnia had a love child with the forest from the Blair witch project. It was haunting, eerily quiet and terrifying all at the same time.
I misplaced a glove on what felt like my five mile trek from tube stop to hospital door and decided to leave it. They say you should leave no man behind but I was sweaty and partially lost, and it had taken so long to march this far I couldn’t imagine turning back all in the name of cashmere.
A sentence I never thought I would say out loud.
The trouble is I was lost, making my way through a haunted snow-forrest and also desperate to pee. For ultrasound appointments they tell you to come with a full bladder or they wont nessasarily be able to see what they need to see. Being the excellent patient that I am, I consumed a huge bottle of San Pellegrino followed by an Evian chaser for the occasion and was now walking from the knees down in a desperate hunt for the hospital and wishing I could forget the whole sordid business and go home to a piping hot eucalyptus bath and a medicinal snifter of whiskey.
Anyway. Long story short, I finally made it to my appointment with Dr Sloan and nurse hottie.
Albeit sweaty and miserable, but I made it. Which is when Yanka tossed her braid over one shoulder and told me to go to the ladies and empty my bladder.
Excuse me Yanka?
I carted this bouji urine halfway across London in the snow and a blizzard and NOW you tell me it is no longer required?! Obviously I was pissed (excuse the pun) but decided I was also too tired to argue the point.
Needless to say, it was incredibly awkward to have Dr Sloan make random conversational chit chat while I was spreadeagled, slathered with KY and naked from the waist down. He kept saying things like “this may hurt” only to push the ultrasound wand harder onto my problematic ovary.
Look – I know you were only doing your job Dr Sloan but in case you hadnt noticed both my vagina AND my ovary ARE attached.
The upside is that there wasn’t a huge tumerous growth lurking in my abdomen, waving hello. The downside is that I had something on my ovary that wasnt supposed to be there.
A cyst that was 30mm, had clearly overstayed it’s welcome and was in Dr Sloans own words “slightly dense and very chubby.”
I thought that all cysts were chubby. But it turns out that there is such a thing as good vs bad states of chubbiness. Typically (because, after all this is me) I had the bad kind. He told me he wanted me to come back in early April for another appointment to check in on said obese cyst to see if it had gotten better or (potentially) worse. He thinks this cyst might be the cause of my pain, bloating, weight gain and most of my bigger issues. Alongside my other ovary which (not to be upstaged) had decided to relocate itself behind my womb. You know, just to be helpful.
Then he told me to pop my knickers back on and that was that. I was left to battle the snow back home (rediscovering my afforementioned glove on the way) and wallow in a warming cinnamon leaf and spicy black pepper oil bubble bath with a glass of chilled prosecco in hand.
Contemplating my fate as I floated alone and morose like a naked, chilblained hippo.

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