Tomorrow, I’m heading to Liverpool. I wish it was something fun, but it’s not.
I’m going into hospital.
Newer readers may not be aware, but in April I had a very nasty health scare. You can read more about it in this post, but the basic jist of what happened is simple: I woke up, my heart was racing. It was scary, very scary. Eventually, I went to a doctor, who immediately sent me to hospital. One course of drugs six hours later, I was sent home, and caught the end of “Deal or no Deal”.
Over the next two weeks followed a bit of an emotional breakdown. Yes, I didn’t document it, but I was at a very scary place, and – I’ll be honest – I did cry myself to sleep some nights. Thanks to my mum, who kind of took the “Rhys. you’re not dying, snap out of it” attitude with me, I picked myself back up. I changed my job for the better, drank less, ate better, got exercise, and – horror of horrors – actually went on a date. But – even after all that – there’s still this in the back of my mind. Something that will be addressed tomorrow.
I mean, I feel fine, and as my mum says – the fact that they’ve booked you for what seems like a 15 minute appointment nearly 3 months after the inciddent sort of suggests that they’re not too concerned. But I’m still a little frightened – what if they find something? I’ve thought about cancelling the appointment purely out of not wanting to know what’s wrong with me, if there is anything. It’s only that both my mum and my boss at work have persuaded me to go.
I’ll keep you posted with what happens, but for the first time in my life, I’m actually wanting to go back to work.
Send me good thoughts.