It comes from the Greek words for 'difficulty with' and 'doing'. Yep, that's right, a proper posh word for what might be the reason why I tend to be clumsy, forgetful, sensitive to noise and yet struggle to make out different sounds, why I can take ages to do things, why I tend to ramble on rather than just get to the point... and all sorts of other strange little quirks I've had as long as I can remember. I've been considering it as a possibility on and off since I first heard about it when I was studying A Level Psychology, and it turns out my mum had wondered about it when I was a teenager but wasn't able to get a diagnosis for me.
Having to quit the New Job prompted me to try and find out if I really do have this condition. So, armed with a list of symptoms printed out from the internet which I had underlined anything that sounded like me, and feeling like a bit of a hypochondriac as I always do, I set out for an appointment with my GP to discuss it.
On the way there, I fell over. Of course.
It happened pretty quickly. It might have been because the pavement was wet...or it might have been that I got my foot caught in my trouser hem (I was wearing my super-wide legged trousers which I love - they are very comfy but sadly not so good for hurrying about in) or it might have been because I was hurrying. Or maybe because I had my mind on other things. Anyway, before I knew it I was on the ground, stunned and feeling sore.
I broke my glasses (they somehow came right off my face and fell in front of me, after the right side of the frame half-snapped apart near the hinge. The right arm has since broken off completely, after I fiddled to try and mend the glasses.) and the impact of doing this gave me a little graze on my temple and a little bump, which was sore for a few days but thankfully hasn't bruised.
I got a few little cuts on my right hand, and I grazed my right knee, ripping a hole in the knee of my lovely wide leg trousers. So I arrived at the GP surgery quite dazed and shaken, holding my broken glasses and cradling my hand to avoid getting blood on anything. I meekly asked the receptionists if there was anything they could give me for my hand - they gave me a tissue and told me to go sit and wait to be called...so I went and waited in the waiting room, until the doctor called me and noticed that I was a little hurt.
Don't look if you're squeamish...
There were two advantages to my mishap on the way to see the doctor - obviously, for one thing, there was a nurse on hand to help me get the grit out of my injured hand and provide rescue remedy, dressings and TLC. The other advantage was that when I told the doctor my ironic reason for making the appointment in the first place, he agreed pretty quickly that yes, I probably am dyspraxic...
The doctor referred me to the neurology department of the hospital (yikes!), and my appointment has come through in the post already, though it won't be until early August. I'm not sure how I feel about it all - if I am dyspraxic, it's going to explain a lot...but I'm not sure what help might be available for overcoming it.