Well, it seems I may have spoken a little too soon with my whole, ‘Everything is fine, normal service will resume shortly, lalala” post from a few days ago.

[Once again, TRIGGER WARNINGS for health anxiety sufferers/pregnant people…]

On Tuesday lunchtime, I headed back to the hospital for what I assumed would be a routine blood test, to confirm that the methotrexate treatment I’d received was still working, and that the levels of HCG (pregnancy hormone) in my blood were continuing to decrease.

You can probably see where this is going, can’t you?

In all honesty, I was a little anxious about this test. That’s what health anxiety does to you, though, so I told myself I was just being silly (and did not, in fact, have the power to predict the future. I mean, if I did, do you think I’d be sitting here in worn-out pyjamas, typing a blog post from my rumpled bed? Hell no…), and did the best to distract myself while we waited for the results to come back.

So we went shopping. I know that probably sounds like a very ‘Amber’ thing to do, but, on top of everything else, I’d started worrying about the fact that we hadn’t even started to THINK about Christmas shopping, let alone actually DO it, so we attempted (unsuccessfully) to track down some gifts, had some coffee and cake (a little more successfully, this time): hell, I even bought myself some nail polish. (Er, a little TOO successfully, if I’m honest: when Terry finally came to find me, he said I looked ‘like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter…’)

After that, we came home, where I painted my nails, switched off the email auto-responder I’d had on for the past week, replied to 15,000 emails inviting me to events in London, and started to plan next week’s blog content. As I mentioned in my last post, I’m not going to pretend that was I feeling fabulous during any of this, but I was OK – and I was hopeful that I would start to feel more so as the days passed.

Then the phone rang.

It wasn’t my local hospital, calling to say that the HCG levels had gone down again, exactly as expected. It wasn’t even that weird robotic woman who keeps calling to tell me I’ve been in a car accident that wasn’t my fault. No, it was the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, calling to say that my HCG levels had, in fact, started to RISE again, and that they needed me in first thing next morning for another ultrasound, and further blood tests.

And then I literally died. 

OK, I didn’t: it felt a lot like it, though.

I completely lost it. I mean, I’d thought the previous week’s panic attack (the one which landed me an emergency appointment with a doctor, who prescribed the highest dose of valium he could give me, and also advised me to write everything down. Regretting that NOW, aren’t you, Mr Doctor Man?) was the worst thing I’d ever experienced, but even now, we look back on that as the Good Panic Attack. Those were the Good Ol’ Days of Anxiety Attacks: the days when you could pop a few pills and be slightly less hysterical than you were before.

This, though? This was something else entirely. It was like I’d somehow reached the Boss Level of Ultimate Health Anxiety, and I’d lost my kit bag somewhere along the way. I had just one life left, and it seemed I was going to spend it on the office floor (Terry used to think it was funny that I sink to the floor every time the hospital calls: now he’s mostly just wondering how to get mascara out of carpets. Answers on a postcard, please…), rocking back and forth, and… well, howling, basically. Yes, I said howling. I’m… not proud of myself, needless to say. In fact, I think I’d definitely rank it as the #1 Most Embarrassing Moment of My Life, and I once got my period unexpectedly during  a school assembly, so…

Anyway!

(You can all tell I’m trying to use humour to try to distract you from The Crazy, right? Just checking…)

The next 12 hours were utterly unbearable. I was completely inconsolable. Valium had long since stopped working by that point, and short of calling the local hospital and having myself committed (And don’t think Terry didn’t consider it…), there was absolutely nothing anyone could say or do to help. There’s absolutely no way to explain this to someone who doesn’t have a full-blown phobia of their own (No, your fear of spiders doesn’t count, unless it’s an actual PHOBIA…): I’ve tried to think of how to do it, but the best I can do is to repeat my previous analogy of being stuck on an airplane that hits really, really bad turbulence – and I guess even that doesn’t really cover it unless you ALSO happen to be frightened of flying. So, to put it another way:

I literally thought I was going to die.

And I’m using the word ‘literal’ in the, er, literal sense here, as opposed to the totally-ironic-God-I’m-such-an-asshole way I usually use it.

I felt sure at this point that there was now something very, very wrong with me. The hospital had warned me that they sometimes do have to give people a second methotrexate shot, but they had also told me (or, at least, I THOUGHT they had: I’m now thinking I may have simply misunderstood this, as I was, not to put too fine a point on it, Completely Effing Crazy at the time…) that I would NOT need to have another ultrasound. This had really comforted me, because here’s another fun result of this whole miscarriage-followed-by-ectopic-pregnancy thing my body does:

I’m now really, really scared of ultrasounds. 

On TV, it always looks like such an exciting, happy time. The nurse goes, “Now, this gel will be a little cold!” (Fun fact: no it isn’t, but they still say it anyway…), but that’s the least of the prospective-parents’ problems, because the next thing they know, they’re looking at a blurry photo of a little tiny baby, listening to the heartbeat, and then going home with a photo, which they will pin on the fridge, and then one day show to a disinterested teenager, who will never understand the magic of that moment unless they experience it themselves.

But it doesn’t always work out like that.

I’ve had four ultrasound scans now: in fact, technically I’ve had 7, because at the very early stage I’m scanned at, the abdominal ultrasound doesn’t really work all that well, so they then have to do what’s called a ‘transvaginal probe’. Yes, it is every bit as awful as you’re imagining. And I’ve now just mentioned both periods and probes in a single blog post: I really hope my dad isn’t reading this.

So, as I said, I’ve had numerous scans now, and only one of them (the very first) didn’t end with bad news. Even that first scan, however, was a pretty traumatic experience for me (and the fact that I ended up miscarrying anyway, 5 days later, didn’t exactly help…): an internal probe is invasive, undignified, and, for someone who goes into every single medical test with the absolute conviction that they’re going to get bad news, it’s completely terrifying.

And now I was being told that I would have to do it again. 

It wasn’t just that, though. As well as being told I’d have to do the scan(s) again, I was essentially being told that I would have to do EVERYTHING again. All of it. This whole, terrible experience, which I thought had come to an end with Saturday’s better-than-expected blood results, would have to be gone through again. The waiting. The worrying. The spending all your money in the ASOS sale, because HELL GIRL, YOU DESERVE IT AFTER ALL YOU’VE BEEN THROUGH. OK, maybe not that last bit, calm down, Terry. (Also, ASOS doesn’t even HAVE a sale on right now. And the reason they don’t have a sale on is because I ALREADY BOUGHT EVERYTHING.)

(OK, I checked, and they do have 30% off on gifts. Doesn’t count, though.)

Basically, I’d thought I was through the worst of it, but actually, I was right back at the very beginning again. And this time was even worse (for me, I mean: not for a normal person. I should probably have said right at the start of this post that you have to read it with the understanding that these are NOT the ramblings of a normal person you’re reading. Unfortunately.), because last time I’d at least had the hope that the methotrexate treatment would work, and that I would not need surgery. Now, for reasons I couldn’t even begin to understand, but which were almost certainly linked to either a) cancer or b) Voldemort, it seemed the methotrexate had NOT worked, and that I would almost certainly be headed into surgery. Which, as those of you with the patience of saints will remember, is currently ranked as Phobia Number One.

(Just out of interest, Phobia Number Two is crabs, and #3 is people who rub their feet together. I could go on like this for hours, but I’ll stop now.)

(I also dislike Elf on the Shelf, but that’s more of a burning hatred than a phobia, you know?)

I hit rock bottom, basically. No matter how many times Terry tried to assure me this was likely just a routine test, and that the rising HCG could even just be a weird kind of blip, I was so certain that I was going to need surgery that I actually went and packed my hospital bag. Well, I SAY I packed my hospital bag: I’d actually had it mostly packed since the moment I came off birth control, because I was totally convinced, right from the word go, that something like this would happen. This is obviously not the time for “I told you so”, but you know what? I TOLD YOU SO. AND I WAS RIGHT.

I have no idea how I got through the next 12 hours – especially given that those 12 hours lasted AT LEAST 5 years, and that’s a conservative estimate. I’ll just say here that Terry really, truly, deserves a medal, and I honestly don’t know how I can ever thank him. Truly.

The next morning, my parents arrived to drive us to the hospital, partly because Terry was also so strung out now that he didn’t trust himself to drive, and partly because they ALSO deserve many, many medals. By this stage, I had managed to get control of the hysteria, and moved on to simply feeling dead inside, almost as if I’d had the Dementor’s Kiss, and now I would just be a shell of my former self. It was a relief for all of us. (In other news: can you tell I’ve been re-reading the Harry Potter series lately?)

Again, I can’t even hope to explain this to those of you who DON’T have phobias, but to at least attempt to put it in context, I am (technically, at least) 8 weeks pregnant today, and have known about this pregnancy for four: there has NEVER been a point where we thought the pregnancy had a chance of surviving (Not because of my anxiety, this time: even before we knew it was ectopic, the hospital had told us to expect a miscarriage…) , and each of those four weeks has involved hospital visits, scary and invasive tests, and complete and utter terror. Even just getting to the point where I felt I’d overcome my anxiety to the stage where I was even able to contemplate trying to get pregnant was such a huge deal for me: I’d had such high hopes that everything would work out, but instead I felt that things had just gone from bad to worse, and now I was DONE. I had hit rock bottom. I’d used up every last bit of strength and courage I had in me to reach this stage, to get through the miscarriage, and to survive these last few weeks. Now I had to do it all again, and I was basically just like, ‘Yeah, can we NOT, actually?’

I know other people have it far, far worse than I do, and they somehow survive, but in that moment, as we walked into the scan room, and I lay down on the bed, I really couldn’t see any light at the end of the tunnel I’d found myself in. (Literally, I mean: they have to switch off the lights to see the screen, and all I can ever think is that THEY DIDN’T DO THAT IN ‘FRIENDS‘, WHY HAS TV LIED TO ME?) I’d had weeks and weeks of non-stop anxiety, and had been forced to deal with things I’d spent my entire life worrying about, and I just couldn’t do it any more. Which, I think, is the only way I even made it into that room: sometimes the path of least resistance really is the only one open to you, you know?

cupcakes with starsSo, they did the scan, and I was given five pieces of news:

01. They would NOT have to do the ‘probe’ this time, which was good news, as I’d forgotten to wear my special ‘scan skirt’, which means I don’t have to strip from the waist down, and therefore allows me to retain a smidge more dignity when they do… what they have to do. (Other things I’d forgotten to wear: my bra. Whoops.)

02. The ectopic pregnancy was still there. Dammit.

03. It is definitely in the fallopian tube, not the ovary. This is sort-of-good news, as it means that if I DID have to have surgery, they would only have to remove the tube, not the ovary. I don’t know WHY this is good news, because I can’t really imagine what use an ovary is without a tube, but I also can’t imagine ever willingly putting myself through this again, so it’s a moot point, I guess,

04. Although still very much in evidence, the pregnancy had not grown, and did, in fact, show some signs of being on the way out. (Again, there’s not really a sensitive way to put any of this, but if it helps, it is very, very tiny, and had basically not grown since the first few weeks, so it is nothing like you’re possibly imagining. It’s an almost indiscernible clump of cells, really.) This was also good news (Well, as ‘good’ as it gets with this kind of scenario) as while the hospital are obliged to warn me that there’s always a danger of the tube rupturing, the size of the…blockage… makes that very unlikely, meaning that my life is (probably) not at risk. (My sanity, on the other hand…)

05. They would not have to do surgery. Or not right now, anyway. Instead, they would likely administer another shot of methotrexate, which DOES seem to be working, just not quite as quickly as they’d really like. This, of course, was the best news of all, and made my packed hospital bag seem like a bit of an over-reaction, really. At least I’m prepared, though, huh?

First, however, they wanted to take more blood tests, to see what my HCG had decided to do THIS time. This ended up being a bit of a performance as, after weeks of being poked and prodded without any real issue, both of my arms decided simultaneously that THIS would be the day they’d be all, “Nope, not happening: you’ve had the last drop of blood you’ll ever be getting from either of us!”

So THAT was fun.

Eventually, however, my left arm consented to give up the goods (Don’t tell the right arm, but the left is my favourite now…), and we were sent off to wait for the results. This took around 3 hours. Now that I knew surgery was off the table (no pun intended) for now, I was feeling much calmer, so, rather than wait around the hospital, we headed back to the shops (Shopping: it’s better than therapy, isn’t it?), where we had some more coffee and cake, I bought some MORE nail polish (I don’t know why, but I’m having a bit of a Thing with nail polish right now) and we also saw a dog that looked almost exactly like Rubin, only it was the size of a small pony. That has absolutely nothing to do with any of this, by the way: it was just a REALLY cool dog.

Finally, the call came: and this time, the news was good.

The HCG had dropped again: all on its own, and without the hospital having to have done anything at all –  other than put me through an entire day of sheer, unadulterated terror, obviously.

It’s possible that the previous day’s blood results WERE “just a blip”. There is always a margin of error with  testing, apparently, so who knows, it could have been that. (HAHA, FUNNY FUNNY JOKE, IF SO!) Although the hormone levels were on the way back down again, though, the latest round of tests showed that they were dropping slower than the hospital would like, so their advice was for me to come back in and have another methotrexate shot, just to be ABSOLUTELY sure that things continue in the right direction, without the need for surgery. I was happy to take that advice, because once you’ve had three internal probes, an injection in the butt really ain’t no thang, and also: SURGERY. NO THANKS.

So, that’s what we did. I had the second shot around an hour later, then came home and basically collapsed in a heap on the sofa. This morning I’m feeling a little rough: because the first shot had already gone to work (it basically prevents fast-growing cells from dividing (or something), and obviously that doesn’t just apply to the cells we WANT to stop dividing…), my body is a little more fragile this time around, so I’ve been told to take it easy, avoid housework and heavy lifting, and generally just lie around, being waited on hand and foot. (The hospital may or may NOT have said that last bit, but they DID tell me to rest up and not do any housework. Unfortunately they DIDN’T tell me not to blog, which is why you’re getting yet another novel-length post about my internal organs. Well, what ELSE am I going to do when I’m stuck on the couch all day?)

Right now, then, I’m feeling very relieved to have once again avoided my worst fear, but also very scared that this shot won’t work either, and that I’ll end up under the knife anyway. The hospital have told me this is very unlikely: they’re confident that they got this, but honestly, last week’s ‘yay, everything will be fine now!’ post now seems quite embarrassing to me: it’s now very obvious to me that, regardless of the outcome of this latest shot, it’s going to be a long road back to ‘normality’ – I’m told I may have weeks’ worth of blood tests ahead of me before the hospital will discharge me, and I’m also told that women who have one ectopic pregnancy have a much higher risk of having another one, or being infertile afterwards, so yeah, that.

Anyway! I feel like I should at least attempt to end this post on a positive note, so again, I’m very, very grateful to the staff at the ERI, who seriously could not have done more for me yesterday, and who have been absolutely outstanding in their level of care. On a slightly less positive note, I’m going to have to once again repeat my plea that people not post stories about surgery in the comments, or on social media: you’ve all been absolutely wonderful, and I know you’re trying to help, but anecdotes about people having to have surgery for this (even ones with good outcomes, or saying it wasn’t that bad) are HUGELY triggering for me right now: yes, I know how stupid that sounds, but let’s face it: I just wrote 3,000 words about my fallopian tubes, so I think you all know that by now, don’t you?

[P.S. A big thank you to my friends Ewen and Gillian for the flowers at the top of this post, and to my aunt, uncle and cousins in Canada for the cupcakes!]
53 Comments
  1. I’m so sorry to read this Amber. You have been and will continue to be in my thoughts and I’m sending you best wishes with all my heart. I’m glad you have the support of a wonderful husband and family. Xx

  2. Oh Amber, you poor thing. I hope you are curled up on the sofa with Rubin and Terry hugs in plentiful supply. Keep thinking of the good things – your amazing parents and family, plus not-so-important-things such as cupcakes, nail varnish, ASOS website… Also know we are all thinking of you and wishing you well.

  3. Amber I don’t know what to say to you except for THANKYOU. I know this has not been easy for you to write about (and as someone who has regular internal scans due to ovarian cysts I agree they are the worst!) however I know that all these posts have educated me. I know that miscarriage isn’t talked about enough and having seen what your going through along with you tubers talking about these kind of things you are really raising awareness.

    I hope you feel better soon

  4. I honestly have no words. This has to be terrible for you and Terry. I’m so sorry you have to go through all of that hell again. Life seems to always work thay way: when things are starting to look up, it throws you a curveball and problems come in like a wrecking ball. Let’s just hope this time things will really go fine and you’ll be able to put this all behind and form your own little family (if you still want to). In the meantime, I’ll send you lots of love and many hugs to help you get through and heal. XOX

  5. I can’t add photos to my comment, so here’s a link:
    https://uk.pinterest.com/rumi14434682/flowers/

    Having to rest is the worst thing when you need to take your mind off things, so I hope you catch great tv series for some serious Netflix marathoning. And online Christmas shopping of course. And researching your next holiday adventure somewhere warm.

    Thinking of you, take care xxx

  6. I’m so sad to read this post. I don’t want to trigger you because I know that sensitive, world is caving in feeling you’re going through. I went through 2 ectopics in 6 months and had to do all those terrible things and then some. But instead of talking about all that, I will just say that even though I’m new to your blog and we don’t know each other, you’re not alone! And when you’re feeling better, if you want to go steal all those horrible curling wand looking probes and burn them, I’m totally up for it.

    You and Terry take good care of yourselves. xx

  7. Oh Amber, what a marvellously shite time of it you’ve been having, to put it incredibly mildly. I’m so relieved there’s a happier ending to the post and everything is crossed that no more blips occur!! Look after yourself and buy all the nail varnish (if you haven’t already) if it makes you feel any better! Lots of positive vibes for a speedy route back to as much normality as possible x

  8. oh Amber, this broke my heart and made me cry. You’ll get through this, a day at a time. Go easy on yourself, don’t let those awful thoughts that anxiety can cause get to you. Have you tried mindfulness? like the proper kind that the NHS backs? I had it during a pain management course and I find it works brilliantly for anxiety too. At it’s most basic it’s about staying in the moment using a kind of meditation and not getting caught up in thoughts your brain is throwing at you. This is the book the NHS developed their courses from https://www.amazon.co.uk/Full-Catastrophe-Living-Mindfulness-Meditation/dp/0385303122/ref=la_B000AQ12GA_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1481221590&sr=1-8 . Thinking of you xxx

      1. I think there can be a lot of “fluff” surrounding it but at its core it’s a really useful strategy. I think I’d probably break it down to controlling breathing, staying in the moment by taking in what’s around you, or distraction. That’s how I find it works best for me but I really hope you get some relief with it xx

        1. oh also if you give it a go and want some help please feel free to email me. I was in the test group for it and worked with one of the leading drs, so I’m more than happy to help if I can. I’m also very well acquainted with anxiety/panic attacks so I know all kinds of techniques xxx

  9. I’m very proud of you for getting through yesterday. You that was an ordeal and a half. Almost there now, and I’m sure the worst is over. Look after yourself and Terry x

  10. Oh Amber I am so sorry. I’m not very good at words and as english is not my native language is even more difficult to find the words… so, I’m just sending my best wishes and a very careful hug. This horrible year will pass.

  11. I’m so sorry you’re having to go through this Amber, how desperately unfair. How incredibly brave to share your story too, to potentially help others going through similar feel less alone (not just in your loss, but around medical phobias and anxiety, something I can relate to).

  12. Nail varnish is my thing, and it ALWAYS helps! Other things that help are a lovely little white fluffy dog, a loving, supportive husband and fantastic parents. Cupcakes from Canada with coffee and flowers from friends can’t hurt, either. You are brave x

  13. Hi Amber,
    Bless you and your partner such a difficult time for you, Don’t compare yourself to others’ suffering as you where going through and we all deal with things differently. I have Chronic Pancreatitis and have had a bad month and my blog has taken a back seat.
    Take care of yourself x

  14. I don’t really know what to say, as everything would sound so … not right at the moment…
    I’ll keep you both in my thoughts and prayers and would like to send you a very warm hug. I admire your strength and openness, and I keep my fingers crossed that this whole awful story will turn out okay.

  15. I am so sorry you had to go through all that. It sounds exhausting to say the least. But all in all, you are as funny as ever! Wishing you a fast recovery and only good news from now on!

  16. Oh Amber I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I hope everything continues to go well. I never expected to be quite so invested in someone else’s fallopian tubes! It’s been interesting following this, as at the ultrasound clinic I work at we have to send patients with ectopic pregnancies to hospital sometimes and I always thought they went for surgery, I didn’t know about the shots. Sending lots of love all the way from New Zealand.

  17. I am so sorry that you had to go through all this, Amber. Just wanted to tell you that my thoughts are with you and I’m wishing you all the best and a fast recovery.

  18. Hi Amber. I rarely post but just want to remind you its okay to panic. If you need to, panic away. And don’t feel bad about it – or any worse than you already do anyway. If you can sleep, great. If not, thats no big problem either, just find something else to do. [Yes, after you’ve tried the 59 thousandth thing and it hasn’t given you any relief, try the 59 thousand and oneth thing. Even if its the same as the 58924th thing you tried…mindfulness (already mention) may be helpful – definately worth a few tries.] Its a tough journey, but it is doable and you are strong. Just hang in there and do the best you can – it will be enough. So so so glad you have some kind caring people around you.

    Wish I could be more comforting than that!

  19. Dear Amber,
    I don’t gave you my own anecdotes on the subjects evenif they ended well in respect of what you said about triggers. I hope you’ll get rid of this thanks to the second injection and that soon you’ll be able to show us your nail polish harvest! Thank you for keeping us informed. We care for you both.

  20. Oh, wow, This would be horrendous for any woman, let alone someone with health anxiety already. My heart is a bit broken for you. Take care of yourself as best you can.
    I had three miscarriages, and it does take a while to get over, so don’t rush things. We are all gunning for you.

  21. I am so sorry to hear that you are going through all this. I hope this finds you curled up on the couch with the ones you love and a warm, soothing beverage. Give my best to poor, brave Terry. It is a very good novel-length blog about your internal organs, for what that’s worth. You’re amazing. Be well soon.

  22. I’m so sorry that you’re going through this; as someone with severe anxiety myself, I can only imagine how difficult this must be. I’m sending you my best wishes Xx

  23. I’m so sorry you’ve had all this extra stress, fingers firmly crossed that the new injection works — it sounds hopeful. Also please know that those of us with anxiety know what it’s like to get so worked up and you’re definitely not alone in that! Sending love and healing thoughts. xo

  24. As usual, all my good thoughts. I’m sorry that it’s not going as well as the best case scenario but thrilled that it’s not the worst. 2017 is going to be much better!

  25. I’ve been reading your blog for some time and never commented until now. But this time, I just have to let you know how incredibly brave you are to share all this. I would like to thank you so much for being so open. Thank you, from all of us who realized we are not alone and feel a little better because of it. You are amazing person, you deserve to get better and you most certainly will!

    I’m going through a rather bad time myself. For couple of months, they are trying to figure out why I can’t get pregnant, so I’m very familiar with blood tests, ultrasounds, scans and all that. I really want to have a family so I convinced myself it’s worth overcoming my health anxiety (although mine’s not nearly as serious as yours). But now I’ve reached a point when I’m not sure I can take it anymore. There is a small chance that my problems may be caused by a tumor in my head which makes my hormones crazy. Just to make sure this is not the case, they are sending me to magnetic resonance. I’m claustrophobic and when this combines with my health anxiety, it’s the perfect recipe for panic attack – and that’s exactly what happened the first (and last, for now) time they sent me to MR. Worst of all, nobody seems to understand that it’s the MR itself what is freaking me out right now. Not what they possibly can find there. I can’t seem to be able to explain it to anyone (the fact that I can’t breathe, start crying and shaking when I even think of it does not exactly help). Even I understand that I’m completely irrational which does not make me feel any better but it does make me feel like the craziest person in Central Europe.

    I hope my little story will not make you feel worse in any way, that’s the last thing I want. But I really feel like I can share it here without being judged and without getting the usual reaction (“You’re crazy and stupid and overreacting because of a medical procedure that does not even hurt.”)

  26. Loving the description of you being ‘like a squirrel gathering nuts’ whilst buying nail varnish and the amazing pony sized Rubin dog. It’s funny what we focus on in times of extreme panic and anxiety. Keep going Amber!!!
    I think it is important that you talk about these things, as so many people will be encouraged by the way yuo describe it all, and you know that the support is out there (plus cupcakes!).

  27. Amber, I’m so sorry for you both, its heartbreaking. I’m another who has been there, and although a long time ago, I still remember the devastation. I hope there is light at the end of the tunnel for you soon.
    Also amazed to see your age, you totally don’t look it. All the best.

  28. You are going through such a tough time and there is not much I can say that will comfort you, so I will just say this – you write beautifully.

  29. Oh Amber, I am so so sorry to read about what you are and have been through.

    You are definitely not alone in the freak out thing. A few years ago a situation arose where I had to come into close contact with my phobia two or three times a day, every day for two months. Halfway into month two they wanted me to do something extra and I just lost it. I think I must have been at the end of my reserves because I just snapped and started crying. Full on snivelling in front of a room full of contemptuous medical professionals. To this day I feel so ashamed. But at the time I just had nothing left to give.

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