My GP of 13 years has officially retired. I had my last appointment with her on Tuesday.
It was emotional. It was more of just a goodbye chat, ending with a quick “Oh, do you need any scripts?” as I stood in the doorway in the way out.
It seemed very fitting that it was the same day that marked her 40 years in practice. It’s clear that she has been a deeply cherished doctor to many, made obvious by the display of dozens of cards covering her office. My stark grey card, blunt and self-deprecating as always, stood in contrast amongst the sea of more typical ‘thank you’ cards. Of course, I did fill the inside with my sappy gratitude and goodbyes, but “thanks for putting up with my rubbish” really says it all, doesn’t it?
I’d seen almost every GP at my clinic before I started going to her, and while some were more disastrous than others, none seemed willing to meet me where I was. I’d been maintaining around my lowest weight, seeing my dietitian for a year already. She’d been constantly trying to help me find a GP because I’d been without medical monitoring for so long. My GP was the first doctor who was actually willing to work with me and focus on monitoring and harm reduction, instead of just trying to push me back to hospital and psychiatrists.
When I got home, I cracked. I was glad I’d planned ahead to wake up early to get all my housework and self-care tasks done beforehand, because I had a feeling that might happen. As soon as I walked in and sat on the couch, the finality of it all hit me.
It’s the quiet kind of sadness. No tears, no hysterics. Just staring at the wall, blank. A sense of emptiness. Loss. Even now, several days later, I’m finding it hard to get motivated. Not to read, not to watch anything, not to talk to anyone.
It feels like a kind of grief. Another important person in my life, just gone. I’ve spent the last few days in a zombie daze, shuffling around mindlessly to do the things that are necessary, then returning to bed. Sleep has, yet again, gone out the window. I’d been doing so well, too. The middle of the night just feels easier to cope with than the daylight hours. And because S is away for a week, I can just sit in my sadness for a bit, with no reason to be up at a certain time of day.
I think the situation was compounded because I’m not sure what’s happening with my dietitian appointments. She was off sick this week. I’d called ahead to change the telehealth appointment to in person, since I’d be going in to say goodbye to my GP, and when they told me she wouldn’t be in and the telehealth confirmation had been sent in error, I also found out I have no future appointments booked.
For many years now, my appointments have been booked several months in advance. Dietitian then GP, back-to-back, at the same time every fortnight. But since there’s no more GP appointments, I guess the dietitian appointments didn’t get booked either. I was a bit caught off guard, and just said I’d organize it another day.
I know I probably should’ve gotten it done while I was at the clinic. Usually if there’s an issue, I’d mention it to my GP and she would get it sorted. But part of me is like “what if I just… don’t?”
So right now, it feels like I’m in limbo. No regular medical appointments. Nothing to hold me accountable, no one to catch me. It’s tempting to just slip away from medical monitoring. I still have my psychologist appointments, but I don’t talk to her about anything to do with anorexia. It feels like an opportunity to spiral. For maybe the second or third time since The Great Disembowelment, I had an urge the other day to take massive laxative overdoses, just to fuck my body up even more.
I do have an appointment with a new GP in a few weeks, someone decided upon by both GP and dietitian as being the best fit for me, but right now, I don’t even want to do that. At least my old GP thought it was a good idea to book it for during supports with S, so she’ll be dragging me there even if I want to back out. I usually do appointments by myself, but we agreed it’d be best for the first appointment because I get so anxious meeting new people.
I don’t know how often I’ll be seeing the new GP. I don’t think it’ll be fortnightly. Maybe every month, or even every two months because that’s the bare minimum I can stretch my scripts. It’s going to be a whole new routine, after over a decade of consistency. She doesn’t work the same days as my dietitian, so back-to-back appointments wouldn’t be an option.
Right now, I don’t even want to think about it.
It feels strange for this to be a footnote, but on Thursday, I reached a milestone that I thought I never might. It was One Year since my last drink.
I didn’t do anything special. While I recognize it’s an achievement, internally it didn’t feel special. If anything, my mindset was more in a place of “how pathetic that I have to celebrate this, how pathetic that it took me so long to get sober”. Although I know, objectively, that’s it’s a positive thing, I’m just struggling to genuinely feel that.
Coffee mugs for GP. It had to be cats, because we spend (spent) a lot of time bonding over our cats. Bold patterns, bright colours - very ‘her’
xxBella
