If I Only Had A Brain!

I have just experienced a few unsettling days. Fortunately, yesterday afternoon, I exited out the other end, more or less unscathed. However, I am coming to realise that this whole episode was a molehill that, with the advent of modern medicine, unwittingly became a mountain.

Let me explain. Twice, in the last few weeks, I have found myself inside the adoring orbit of our grandbaby, Imogen. The first instance was a one-night sleepover down in suburban Perth. Five days later, Callum, Bronwyn and Immy set out on a major expedition to Heavenly Beverley, to spend forty-eight hours in Station House.

We loved having them with us. The only downside was the sudden development of my enormous and painful knockers in the wake of their visit.

We were suitably amused. Take one uber-clucky Nanny and one uber-cute baby and my boobs went ballistic. Except the pain became intense and I was unable to wear a bra and needed serious analgesic relief, particularly to sleep.

We had arranged an appointment with our favourite quack, Doctor Stephanie, in Northam, for our usual forty thousand scripts and queries. I added my sore boobs to the list and expected her to laugh along with us and confirm my suspicions that my body had just had a baby overload.

Stephanie was concerned but not overly alarmed. However, she decided to order a prolactin test for me. This was duly done and I promptly forgot about any outcomes. Until the surgery rang me to book an MRI on my head at one of the radiological centres in the Big Smoke.

Apparently, my prolactin levels (the hormone used to produce breast milk) were through the roof. So, Stephanie wanted to discount that the cause was a pituitary tumour. I immediately assumed my secret identity of Anxiety Girl and promptly became Very Anxious.

The cost of an MRI was also prohibitive, which sent my Panic Inducing Index up a few more notches. I rang the surgery and asked if the test was really necessary. Yes, Stephanie wanted me to proceed. By this stage, my flight response had me revving up my wings for a quick take off.

Along with noticing every twinge and niggle, I became convinced that I did, indeed, have a tumour. We finally found a radiologist who would bulk-bill. The helpful receptionist asked I was having headaches or seizures. Headaches?! Of course, I was having headaches. I was so attuned to my internal workings by this stage that every ping or pop in my head was my tumour farting.

I duly had the MRI on Tuesday. By Thursday, I was a nervous wreck. Particularly as the very kindly technician had tried to reassure me by suggesting I see my doctor as soon as possible. Then, in this time of instant communications, my results became lost in cyberspace.

A series of frantic phone calls ensued. Finally, at five minutes to five yesterday, I received my results. My imaginary friend, my tumour, had never been. I was given the All Clear. Stephanie suspected my antidepressants were to blame for my spike in prolactin levels...

I felt strangely deflated for about three seconds. Then elation. I had a brain, but there was nothing sinister lurking within. Just my own sense of humour, my quirky responses, my less-than-logical ideas and my absolutely individual paranoia. Plus, a cauliflower, a jellyfish, two ghostly spirits and a love heart...I'd seen them in my films.

Sometimes, the simplest explanation really is the truth. I have been on antidepressants for a very long time. Why should my meds choose now to send my boobs berserk? I am now entirely sure that Immy was the culprit.

Will this stop me in my Nanny Kate driven urges to see our beautiful grandbaby? Not bloody likely. I plan to conduct an experiment and see if  Imogen's presence causes another surge in mammary activity. If so, this mystery will be put to bed. Along with my cauliflower, jellyfish, ghosts and love heart.

Thanks to Doctor Google...

This is a pituitary apoplexy. I was just having an Anxiety Girl apoplexy!

Clear as mud...

Can't hear the bloody music as the machine is louder!

Finally...

The likely defendant!