I was never very good at riddles, so it doesn't help that my body is currently a walking version of one. Maybe I’m more of a maths equation?! (FYI- I wasn't any good at maths either) for example: what do you get if you take a healthy, active female, who doesn't smoke or drink and isn't overweight, times by a decade of hormonal imbalances, subtract all bone density and periods, add pre-diabetes, insulin resistance, a tonne of new metal work that now lives in my leg, divide by multiple expensive appointments with specialists who can't agree, subtract more blood, add additional hormones, equals… ME! Yes, I'm as confused as you are, but what's not filling me with confidence is when these medics are equally baffled too. After a trip to a fancy private hospital to see an endocrinologist, I came out feeling like a Unicorn and not in a good way. None of it made sense to her either. What my blood results showed, what others had prescribed me, how my bones had got this bad, why there's nothing hereditary about anything I've got, and was I really menopausal or could we all be missing a vital piece of the puzzle? She’d understandably never seen an acute case of ‘The Sophie’ before, and I don't think anyone else has either. Further adding to my ‘Sick Unicorn’ status.
It's difficult in these situations when they go on to ask about my family history…
“What about your mum's current health and family history?” And I have to say “she's no longer here for me to ask.” Then I start crying, they hand me their desktop box of sandpaper tissues and so it goes. I've also noticed how none of these specialists agree with one another and all believe they would have done things differently i.e better. Much like the valet guy who comes to detail your car; He'll claim his snow foam is better than the last guy’s and the ceramic coating HE recommends will outlive you as well as your car.
“Well, I wouldn't prescribe you that” or “Why haven't they tested you for this?” and “I think you need that…” blah blah blah. For once I wish they would complement a fellow doctors work, making me feel less fought over or experimented on like a human Guinea pig. These are all experts in their fields, and I have huge respect for all of them, but it really got me down this week how they all have such varying opinions.
This lady opened another Pandora's box of potential ground-breaking stuff when she suggested this could all be down to my pituitary gland. Something else to google folks! But basically, it's a mighty powerful pea sized gland that sits at the base of our brains, between our eyes. It's known as the 'Master gland' and is responsible for A LOT. Producing the correct amount of hormones for one and sending things to the relevant places in the body. If this little pea is in some ways ‘off’ or defunct, it causes chaos! And the worst part is, you can't get a new one! Unlike the Macho Peas I order from Nandos. So, guess what? More blood tests required! Cue grovelling e-mail to my GP pleading him to suck more blood from my arm for free, so dad doesn't have to re-mortgage and I don't have to sell Pedro. Then (in theory) I can return to the expensive endocrinologist for her to analyse the results, get me on the right treatment and finally crack the code of Sophie's body!
He's yet to respond to the emails but I'll keep refreshing my inbox, like waiting for a DM off the man of my dreams.
HRT wise- I'm up to wearing a full oestrogen patch, but still feeling like I’m dying a slow death as I battle the most debilitating daily fatigue ever. When coffee and a nine hour sleep no longer work for you, there’s only one thing for it: A race track! Donington Park to be exact. The start of the BTCC season and my long-awaited return to the grid. Enter adrenaline pumped Sophie in her pleather grid girl pants! I've been living for this day! Particularly in the many bleak moments post-femur where I began to doubt I'd ever walk again and certainly never manage heels. The ultimate goal in my mind was to be there for round one, standing proud in my heels, representing the team, walking on and off the grid unaided and having everyone go “Did you even break your leg?” And we'd all begin to wonder if it was just a bad dream.
OK, so the weather was something of a nightmare with relentless rain early on, but nothing could rain on my parade! Although getting up at 5:30 to do my hair was probably a waste of time, I hit lucky with the parking when we were diverted to paddock parking on tarmac, saving Pedro having to be towed out by a tractor! The fact everything was rained off or delayed till after lunch, gave me time to go on a hugging spree! Visiting various crew, staff, teams and medics, delivering sweets and demonstrating my best walking!
First stop was the medical centre to see the amazing paramedics who got me off the wall, onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. And managed not to vomit despite my bone trying to poke out. I didn't know at the time you can actually die from breaking your femur, so I feel I owe these guys a hell of a lot. So much more than the confectionary I presented them with.
I've rinsed through so many of doctor Mark’s Haribo over the years so the least I could do was replenish them and thank him for getting me on the gas and air so fast. I knew it was going to be emotional for me. These people literally rescued me in probably the most painful and scary moment of my life. I bowled in looking like a drowned rat while they were all sat round in a circle, clearly having some sort of briefing.
“Sorry to interrupt guys but are Doctor Traff and Doctor Mark here?”
Right on cue they emerged from a side room and my voice shot up about 10 octaves as I began to sob and squeak my way through my little thank you speech. I'd like to say there wasn't a dry eye, but for the many paramedics there who didn't have a clue who I was, they were minding their own business trying to enjoy their cup-a-soup, probably thinking “who's this girl and why is she sobbing into a box of sweets?”
As the rain eased off we did eventually make it onto the grid for race 2 and 3, and we got some good points in the bag for WSR! I did have mild panic attacks watching everyone repeatedly climb the pit wall though, as I chanted “get off the fence, get off the fence, GET OFF THE FENCE!” under my breath until they safely and successfully climbed down. I've been told by the championship coordinator that I’m banned from climbing the pit wall, so I’ll do as I’m told in order to keep my job. The next stop in the calendar will be a return to the scene of the crime: Brands Hatch. I'm slightly apprehensive as everything that happened on that fateful day will inevitably come rushing back to me, but I’m eager to make peace with the wall! If they'll let me, I’d like to stand in the spot where it happened, reassess how high actually was it, and maybe raise a complaint if it doesn’t have a blue plaque with my name on it saying ‘DJ Femur Woz ‘ere’.
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