Reviewing the Review I Haven’t Even Reviewed Yet...(part 3)

So here’s today’s plot twist:

I got a message from the GP surgery: “Please make an appointment to review your HRT.”

Now, let’s just pause there...

I haven’t even started HRT yet.

Nothing has been prescribed.

Nothing has been collected.

Nothing has been inserted, swallowed, rubbed in, or absorbed.

So, how exactly am I reviewing something I’ve not even begun?

Maybe the NHS has developed a new time-bending hormone portal I’m unaware of.

Or maybe this is just another day in the joyful admin hellscape that is trying to get support as a hormonally challenged person in the UK.

Anyway, I phoned the surgery, thinking maybe it was a mistake, that somehow my file had been clicked too early, or the computer was having a moment.

The receptionist, lovely as she was, told me the next appointment would be in over a week… and it would be a telephone appointment. Not even face-to-face. I mean, fair enough, I don’t want to parade my werewolf week face into the surgery either, but still.

So I asked - quite reasonably, I think: “Why am I being reviewed for something I haven’t even started yet?”

She disappeared for a few minutes and came back to say, “Ah, the doctor must want to talk to you about your options before starting.”

Right. Okay. But wasn’t that what the last phone call was for? The one where they already confirmed I was being prescribed HRT? The one where we spoke about my symptoms, my cycle, my bloods, and the whole letter from the specialist?

Why do I need another call? Another wait? Another repeat of information they already have?

And will it even be with a doctor this time, or just another stand-in who’s reading from a vague template?

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.

I do want to feel supported.

I do want to make sure I understand everything.

But when you’re already mentally and emotionally treading water, trying to juggle perimenopause, PMDD, business, motherhood, and all the invisible labour that women carry, an unexpected “review of the non-existent review” just adds another weight to the pile.

And now, according to my ever-evolving hormonal tracker (aka my gut instinct, tracking app, and emotional weather report), I’m heading into Werewolf Week...potentially...And I don’t even know when or how I’m supposed to begin this treatment.

Part of me wants to laugh it off, because it is a bit absurd. Another part wants to scream - because this is exactly the kind of circular, passive support system that leaves women falling through the cracks.

And then… there’s that voice.

You know the one.

The mind monkeys start:

“Maybe you’re making too much of this.”

“Maybe you don’t really need help.”

“Maybe you should just cope.”

They crawl in when the hormones flip the script. When I’ve had to repeat myself for the fifth time. When it feels like I’m chasing care that should just be given.

But then my heart whispers:

“You do deserve this.”

“You’re not overreacting.”

“You’ve carried enough.”

So I’m sitting in the in-between. Wondering what this next phone call will bring. Wondering how much longer it will take. Wondering how long it’ll be before I get to start.

And underneath it all, reminding myself again:

There’s no medal for doing it all alone.

If you’re in this too - waiting, wondering, questioning - I see you. I feel you.

We’re allowed to want support. We’re allowed to feel confused. We’re allowed to hold hope and frustration at the same time.

And we’re absolutely allowed to question systems that weren’t built for our complexity.

S x