A year ago, I went for my chest x-ray, after going to see my GP the previous day. That chest x-ray was the thing I needed to start the ball rolling to get my final diagnosis. 48 hours after the x-ray (Thursday), I was to get a call telling me I needed a CT scan the next day (Friday). I didn’t sleep from then until I saw the chest consultant (Tuesday).
I was convinced I was going to walk into that room to be told they suspected Hodgkin’s, but now, they suspected a cyst. If only. The surgeon who was going to be removing the “cyst” suspected it could be lymphoma because of the pain I was having whenever I had the tiniest bit of alcohol. The reason I saw him? Because I was bricking it about the operation and wanted to see him to see if I could cancel it. He wouldn’t let me.
That operation, or at least the thought of it, was the scariest thing I ever had to go through. I spent so much time reading up on it, I’d convinced myself I was going to die. I was asking my husband to make sure he’d tell my 8 month old son about me should I not make it.
All of that seems like I lifetime ago now, and it all started with that chest x-ray. It took long enough to get it, but I am to this day so grateful to the GP that referred me for it. I can hand on my heart say that she saved my life.
This article is intended to convey general educational information and should not be relied upon as a substitute for professional healthcare advice.