A poem written in advance of the Miss Diagnosis panel on July 18, 2019 in Stockport.
In the wake of the crashing storm which swept my feet from under me like a gilded scythe, I am Miss Diagnosed
Each rotation cutting deeper than the one before, as I raged against the overwhelming shadow which caressed the contours of my body, reaching deep into the very depth of my soul
The flashing lights that accompanied the inevitable journey, ensconced in the calming reassurance of the humane side of the emergency response
The wave of nausea that accompanies the unbearable pain, as the menstrual fluid flows unchecked within my abdominal walls, now brings me crashing to the floor with the resultant abandonment of all decorum which lies next to the vomit now beside me.
I lay as a wounded bird wrapped in the familiar saltiness of my tears warming my face, as they once again fall silently upon the cold hospital floor, as my thoughts, just as I lose consciousness, move to the incredulity of my plight
A reassuring voice awakens me from my slumber as I glance upon the familiar invading cannula and am soothed by the orchestral tones giving affirmation of my heart rate
The words of the consultant leave me reeling from the procrastinations which linger in the air around me, as if to silence my very being, enveloping me in dark veil of avoidance and delay
My soul cries out in disbelief at the myriad of ears that don't listen, as I travel, as if caught in the headlights through unnecessary tests, excuses, ridiculous procedures - each designed to cast doubt on my instinct and presenting symptoms
A hand on my shoulder found me at my lowest when faced with the only remedy proposed to be psycho-sexual counselling. I was lost in the incongruent swell of communications and despair.
The hand came with a whispered voice, speaking loudly, asking for the opinion of others, and suddenly as the morning mist rolls down from the hills enveloping all in its path, a new swathe of light washed over me.
Whilst liberated by the resultant findings, my world was turned upside down. No apology would quell the sense of loss and fear of what lay ahead when faced with the the reality of the misdiagnosis
My very essence as a woman had been cruelly disfigured, my most intimate of places no longer held the allure or productivity it once did, alongside complications which would blight the rest of my natural years
The greatest shadow cast is one of loss and regret at the journey travelled, and the real and actual harm resultant from the Miss Diagnosis.
J. Winstanley July 2019