It never bloody ends, does it?

NB:  Have had acupuncture and am somewhat calmer now, but, this is what I wrote on the tube a mere four hours ago:

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Where did the euphoria go?  Why am I flitting from here to there and back again, mosquito-style?  So sped up that today I ate my first ever Chinese take-away lunch-time special on the Underground.  I'd run out of time between appointments and phone calls, every one of which medically related.

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Is it the sniffle I picked up at my never-ending daily appointments with the Nurse, wound-packing over and over, "Did they tell you it'll scar this time?", or the unsettling mystery calls from the GP who keeps saying, "Please phone back", but never says why, and is never available when I try? Please don't let my wound be infected.  

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I think it's acclimatising to bloody anything life slings at me, over and over again, and then grumbling about whatever is left on my plate.  Ergo, if all traces of cancer were proven to have been eradicated, every last gallstone removed, lifelong financial security guaranteed, I'd probably still phone my sister and whinge that I picked up a cold this morning.

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Pathetic, isn't it?  The human condition.  Ah, me.

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Afternote:  GP caught me at last - "Just phoning with good news - no sign of infection on the swabs we took from your wound".  So why am I still as twitchy as a Hollywood movie star on a diet of thin air, filtered water and coke?

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Attached strapline from 'The Lady', found in GP surgery.