False Evidence Appearing Real: The Fear Of The Unknown

Hello again all. I’ve been absent for a little too long. Mind you, I’ve been absent in my head as well.

I had the appointment with the bone/tissue tumour people on Wednesday and my consultant is lovely. She told me some quite bad news – the tumour that they were once 90% certain was benign, they are now 75% certain is malignant, and she was quite abrupt telling me this but she has since redeemed herself.

I had an open biopsy yesterday. Went under general anaesthetic, they cut my leg open, took some tumourous bone out and some healthy bone and have sent both samples off to histology. I should get the results in 10 days or so. Apparently, I will feel a ‘bit out of sorts’ until I get the results according to the nurse specialist. What a bloody understatement.

I feel shit. I keep bursting into tears and simultaneously biting everyone’s head off. I am neurotic and paranoid that the boyfriend will leave me because he won’t want the hassle. I want to run away from all of this, until it was pointed out to me that what I would be running from I would actually be running away on (i.e. my leg). I’m not sure how you cope and deal with the bleak, uncertain 10 days of waiting to be told whether you have a sarcoma or not. It’s difficult and there is no rule book. I keep saying I can’t do it, and yet everyone tells me I either can or I have no option or I’ll learn. I’m sure they’re all right, I just can’t quite get it sorted in my own head.

On Wednesday after the hospital appointment I got dropped back at school but instead I crossed the road and went into Asda where I bought blades and tablets. I sat in the toilets making cuts on my leg and crying over a pack of co-codamol and a bottle of water. I only didn’t do anything worse because my Mum sent me a text asking if I was OK, whereupon I realised that I should be back at work and not conducting such silliness.

On Thursday I left work at lunchtime after being told to go home because I was dangerous. I couldn’t concentrate or stop crying and was about to mix 2 chemicals together for a lesson that would have killed the entire class if heated. Before I left I cut my leg again and then went home. My Mum realised what I had done and took me to A&E where a lovely doctor sutured me up but insisted on getting the crisis team out who told me that they shouldn’t be seeing me as they don’t accept referrals from people with BPD. Mind you, Newcastle A&E aren’t especially effective at dealing with self-harm/depression/suicide.

Now, I feel stupid. I’m getting myself worked up about something that still has a 1 in 4 chance of being nothing. And 1 in 4 odds have worked for me before (1 in 4 people having a mental health problem).

I just feel neurotic, but then for once in my life I think I am entitled to be.

Ruth