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I’m not a big fan of diets, but here I am downloading the NHS diet plan and back to counting calories.

Julie has been in and out of hospital like a yoyo the last week, so our family life has been pretty chaotic. But as soon as she started to stabilise again, she declared that one of the things she wanted to do was lose weight.

Now in the aftermath of crisis Julie’s head is not in a good place. Dieting can seriously mess with your head at the best of times: all those obsessional routines about calorie counting, all that guilt when you “sin”. She’s already surveying the wreck that is her sixth form career after two months of chaos and trying to work out how to recover that. To diet as well: is that a good idea?

I figured the best thing would be to offer to be her diet buddy. I could do with losing a few pounds anyway, and by dieting alongside her I could offer her support and moderate some of the extremes of behaviour.

In fact it’s been quite fun. Its been a few years since I’ve looked at the world of dieting, and there are lots of apps and much better sources of advice. I insisted we try the NHS plan because it is moderate, and because Julie had already successfully used their running program last year. We printed out the star charts and put them on the fridge, as instructed, and signed up to a free calorie logging app which allows us to be “friends” and share information. There’s been a fair amount of giggling and “Did you know…?” conversations. It’s fun to work on a project together.

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You should be careful what you wish for. Told that I had to have an operation to remove part of my thyroid, I was frustrated to find that I would have to wait for some unknown period of time. I was warned that it would take two or three weeks for a letter to arrive from the surgeon, then an appointment to meet them, then the operation itself at some undefined date. Clearly there was no urgency in my case, but the wheels of the NHS did seem to grind exceedingly slow. In the meantime, so many things – work, holiday, friends – were piling up because I didn’t have the faintest idea when to expect my operation.

Sure enough the letter finally arrived, telling me to phone for an appointment. I phoned and phoned and left messages, but the number was not manned, and no one phoned me back. I did some research: it was the right number, but the department chronically understaffed. The letter said that I must phone within 7 days, and this time had almost run out: did that mean I might lose my place?

It was all quite stressful, and in the middle of it, Julie had a crisis, ended up in hospital again with an overdose, and for a couple of days I didn’t have time to keep chasing.

Finally, remembering that my company pays for private healthcare (of which I disapprove), I checked that I would be covered, and contacted the surgeon’s private secretary. Success! She picked up the phone immediately and within 10 minutes I had arranged to meet the surgeon in his private clinic in 2 weeks time. I sat back on my heels, astonished. Eat dust NHS.

But it was only when she phoned back later to check some detail, that I realised I had misunderstood. The appointment was not to meet the surgeon, but for the operation itself.

I was aghast! Now things are moving too quickly! I don’t feel ready to go under the knife so soon. And it feels positively indecent to have this surgeon cut into me without so much as meeting me first. By the time he sees me for the first time I will be unconscious. All the energy I had expended fretting about the wait now went into anxiety about the undue speed!

Of course I will go ahead in two weeks if I can: it is too convenient not to. Getting it out of the way will improve the outcome medically, get it finished before the children’s exams, let me recover in time for my holiday, and many many other benefits. I will just have to learn to live with my abandoned principles and my squeamishness.

However there is one sting in the tail: the operation can only proceed in two weeks if my notes are promptly passed from the NHS to the private hospital. And of course that means relying on the department secretaries who are too overworked to even pick up the phone 😦

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