Trying to be heard.

Despite my honesty so far, there is one symptom I haven’t mentioned yet.

One that looking back, should have set alarm bells ringing.

One that makes me feel a little ashamed to admit – because deep down, I know I should have challenged it more.

A lump. Under my armpit.

It wasn’t huge, and it didn’t necessarily hurt. But it was there – and I knew it wasn’t supposed to be.

I first mentioned it during a cervical smear examination. So, not to a GP, but to the practice nurse. Not that that was a bad thing. She was kind, gentle, and actually took the time to examine me properly after finishing my smear, despite it adding time to the appointment.

Thankfully, she told me not to worry. Said it was probably an ingrown hair.

Gross, but not life-threatening – especially considering what finding a lump usually means. So she prescribed me a cream and sent me on my way, with advice on what to do if there was no change. But I was confident in her diagnosis, and didn’t think I’d need to go back.

The lump, on the other hand, had other ideas. And despite my confidence, it didn’t disappear.

So, as advised, I returned to the surgery – this time meeting with GP number one.

I’ll give it to her – she was convincing. Everything she said made sense.

The lump was a swollen lymph node, “quite common with infection,” she said. “Your body’s just fighting off other things.”

That made sense, right? And who was I to question a medical professional?

The only thing that didn’t sit right with me was how she dismissed my hip pain.

“People your age don’t usually experience sciatica pain,” she said.

And perhaps that was fair. But it was in the way she said it – clipped, dismissive, like I’d already overstayed my welcome.

So, I nodded, told myself I was probably just being dramatic, and left.

But things just kept getting worse.

Soon, even breathing felt like hard work. I couldn’t walk up a small hill without stopping, bent over, gasping. And sure, I was never the sporty type – but I wasn’t unfit. I walked. I moved. I even joined the gym now and then (even if I usually ghosted it after a week).

It just didn’t make sense. How had I gone from just tired… to this?

It got to the point where I was secretly booking an Uber to work every morning, too embarrassed to tell Ben or my colleagues that walking was just too much. 

I felt ridiculous. Ashamed, even.

Sure, we’d slipped into lazy dinners and too many takeaways. Ben was juggling his PGDE – tired from placements and trying to power through (unlike those of us who bailed!) – and I was… well, quietly unravelling.

But even so, we hadn’t been that unhealthy. 

And he wasn’t gasping the way I was. He was fine.

So why wasn’t I?

I’m just rundown. That’s what I kept telling myself. It’s only temporary. You’ll get back to your old self again.

But I didn’t. And somehow, I just kept getting worse.

Every part of my morning routine was slowing down. Getting out of bed was harder. Getting dressed, putting on makeup, doing my hair – it all took effort.

And every time I brushed my teeth…those swirls of red in the foam…they grew a little darker, and a little more each time.

So, for the second time in just a few weeks, I went back to the GP surgery.

This time, I saw doctor number two.

I never liked this GP. She made me feel uncomfortable – cold, dismissive, and like I was some naive young girl wasting her time.

On a completely separate occasion, I’d gone to her for help with my mental health – overwhelmed by anxiety and drowning in the PGDE course – and guess what she said… “But no one likes their job. It doesn’t mean they’re depressed.”

Fab response, doc. Exactly what you want to hear when you’re falling apart inside and finally brave enough to say it out loud.

So… this was who I was up against now.

The doctor I was supposed to ask for stronger painkillers – the one I was meant to mention my breathlessness to.

Honestly, I’d braced myself for the worst:

“You’re just overweight… you should exercise more… get over yourself and eat a carrot…”

So, in a way, it almost felt like a relief when she simply said:

“It’s quite common with infections. Your body’s just fighting off other things.”

The only issue? I’d already been told that. Word for word. And just like last time, I talked myself down. Because who was I to argue with a doctor? She had the qualifications. I had Google. 

But, despite everything – the dismissals, the gut feeling that something wasn’t right – I kept circling back to the same thoughts:

Maybe I was just tired.

Maybe I was overthinking it.

Maybe I really was just unfit.

The only thing I truly knew was that I was scared.