It’s never a good thing when your hospital appointment confirmation letter comes with a map attached <– something I learned yesterday evening. After getting off the bus at the main entrance of the hospital, I was surprised to learn quite how much of a trek it is from there to Glamorgan House – the land of dermatology. I arrived at 17:00, for a 17:20 appointment, and was thrilled to be out by 17:45.
The consultant I saw seemed pretty good (though, I’ll tell you now, it’s never nice to hear a specialist to exclaim at how bad yout skin is), he prescribed isotretinoin, which is apparently the same thing my referring GP mentioned to him in her letter.
“You may have heard shocking headlines: Teen Acne Drug Suicide! Yes, this is the medication they were on, but only once in my 15 years of prescribing this have I had a patient develop severe depression… and that cleared right up as soon as they came off the medication. Nothing to worry about, I’d give this to my children if they ever need it.” says the consultant, knowledgeably.
“Oh.” I said.
“It’s really a very effective treatment.”
Well, yes, I probably wouldn’t mind my scarred face so much if I was a corpse…
I’m sure it will be fine. I’m fine most of the time. I’ve got to have blood tests before I get the prescription, which means another mission up to the hospital, so possibly I’ll go to see my GP beforehand for a chat about how much of a good idea taking this would be for me. I’d have to start on a low dose in any case, as it might affect the swelling of my wrist. Joyous.
In other news, Henry can say “love you” … but only in a really scary, zombie-esque voice. His daddy taught him.
