18 July 2010
My Diagnosis 1: Getting There
My Aspergers Syndrome started with my diagnosis. Well, all right, it actually started with my birth, but this blog is going to start with my diagnosis as I can’t actually remember my birth.
My wife arranged the appointment with the consultant – that’s usually the only way things happen in our house. Left up to me, I wouldn’t see a soul. By the way, for the proposes of this blog, I’m going to call my wife Vanessa, since that’s her name.
For my diagnosis, Vanessa contacted a retired and now elderly professor, which gave me the slender hope that he might drop dead before the date of the appointment. Unfortunately for me (but fortunately for the professor) that didn’t happen. So, the big day arrived.
Before big occasions, I am not always the epitome of calm. Throwing a fit is my way of saying ‘Whay, we’re going out’. Vanessa generally deals with organisation, time-keeping, what we need to take, putting the animals away, and any other loose ends and I deal with breathing in an orderly manner. Works for us.
Leaving only slightly later than planned, which is a minor miracle considering that I didn’t want to leave at all, we set off to the consulting rooms. Vanessa drove.
Now, when I’m stressed, I can either melt-down into animated hysterics, or withdraw into utter silence. I chose the latter for the duration of the journey. That wasn’t a problem except I was meant to be navigating. Upon speeding past the exit we needed from the dual carriageway, I maturely and calmly decided a change of tack was required. So I threw a fit about how pointless this whole trip was and, having missed the turning we needed, it was crystal clear that we should just turn round and go home. And why I ever needed to see an Asperger specialist was completely beyond me as it is patently obvious that I’m well adjusted and normal. Vanessa took the next exit and found the road we needed. I went back to silence.
We were late, but not by much. I loathe being late, unless it’s for something I don’t want to go to, in which case I couldn’t care less.
The consulting rooms turned out to be a converted house that reminded me of the sort of flea pit I lived in as a student. We were told to wait in the waiting room, which I could have probably worked out for myself. I didn’t ask where I could go to the toilet but I imagine that would have been the toilet. Those receptionists have a tough job remembering it all.
We didn’t wait long, which was just as well as it was the sort of place where tropical diseases probably flourish. Except that they would have probably frozen to death on that morning as some useless halfwit had turned the heating off. We sat there waiting for the professor and trying to avoid the ravages of frostbite.
He came in and greeted us profusely. Asked if we had had a good journey. I was just about to say ‘No, we were late leaving, the traffic was bad, we missed our exit from the dual carriageway, some muppet had stopped in a no-stopping lane which meant we all had to pass him in single file, and then we couldn’t find the building as we were expecting smart consulting rooms rather than a wartime bomb site’. But before I did, Vanessa said ‘Fine, thanks’ and smiled. The professor smiled back and that was it. My answer would have been better but not on this planet. I let them go ahead before following on like a lost dog. This was not going to be fun.
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Fantastic! Looking forward to following your blog.
ReplyDeleteThis had me in hysterics: "why I ever needed to see an Asperger specialist was completely beyond me as it is patently obvious that I’m well adjusted and normal"
The word "obviously" being the punch-line.
Kudos, Mike.