I just wrote a letter. The old fashioned way.

It's printing off even as I type. (Yes, not so old fashioned as to require the use of pointed implements and paper, vellum or rock.)

It's to one of the local pathology services. When I need blood taken, pathology nurses come to me rather than me to them. Most services are fine about this but one service insists I ask my doctor or their staff to call and book. I think this is a total pain in the arse, especially when a doctor has given you request slips months in advance so you have to ring the surgery that appears to be staffed by an ever-changing population of millions in order to explain to someone who has probably never met you that yes, pathology labs do do home visits and yes, I need one and no, I can't book it myself and no, the doctor doesn't have to do it herself you can do it on her behalf...yes, fair enough check with her if you want and whoo hoo she only works part time and won't be in until next Thursday.

So I wrote a letter. It seemed to me to be something I should put on paper rather than email and I'm glad I did. There's something about words on paper that encourages careful editting. Email encourages flippancy. I printed a copy off yesterday, I've now changed it substantially and it is now far more polite, less whiney and more succinct.

Although somehow it still contains the expression 'bat out of hell'.

I will revisit this after I've had about three more hours sleep.

~~~

Then the rest of the day will hopefully be devoted to locating a bunch of articles about nursing people with severe ME and the cognitive dysfunction of ME, then begging one or more of you good people with institutional access to actually try laying your hands on them for me.

~~~

I still cannot work out why it's so hard to get proper support if you have ME. As in, I can't understand why there's still so much ignorance among service providers.

~~~

Bah. Sleep. Now.

I went to my appointment with the Shrink today. It was actually quite a lot of fun, I was in the mood for a lively conversation. Damn but I miss talking to people. In particular, talking to people with whom I can speak candidly and let my brain go for a run. Although that might not have been advisable given her profession but too late now, meh.

We had an interesting chat about why I think I'm misanthropic and agreed that maybe I really *am* just realistic about people.

I caught the tram home.

I

caught

the

tram

home.

I'd been able to lie down for the duration of the appointment, so I was feeling okay at the end of it and her rooms are on the main road near us, less than a dozen stops away (a healthy me would walk it automatically). So it was about a 50 metre walk with a short tram ride in the middle and my brain and senses weren't so overloaded that it seemed too hard. And fuck it, but I so wanted to feel normal for a change that I decided to take the risk. Sick of having to wrap myself in cotton wool.

First time I've used public transport in well over a year and a half. Probably longer.

Rather pleased.