The nurse, as booked, called me this morning while I was standing at a bus-stop in the centre of London. Cue mandatory farcical NHS experience of shouting ‘blood! BLOOD!’ into my mobile while startled commuters gave me a wide berth.
And, do you know, my iron levels and haemoglobin were both… Normal.
Normal. Not in the least bit anaemic.
So what in effers is going on?
Theory 1 – a vitamin deficiency. I think someone mentioned it. Well, I take a supplement with all the vitamin Bs and vitamin D, I eat eggs and fish every week, yada yada, so I don’t think it can be that. Though, admittedly, I live in Britain, this has been one of the dankest summers we’ve had in a long while, and whenever the sun does come out I whack on a pint of factor 25 because I am a) palid and b) covered in moles and freckles (over 100. Yes indeedy. I am constellated). How much vitamin D do you need to take if you live under a rock?
Theory 2 – This is some kind of inflammatory reaction thing to the adenomyosis/endometriosis. Basically, Dr Google tells me, having your insides almost permanently irritated with pooled blood (oh, ick) leads to your body assuming you are ill, after all, bits of you are inflamed, that’s ill, isn’t it? So your immune system gears up, grumbling, and you feel permanently like you have mild flu. This is a common problem for Women With Exploded Insides, I gather. Anyway, surgery in offing, yada-yada.
Theory 3 – It’s psychological. I’m bloody depressed. I have been for ages. You all know this. So I stopped dithering about like a chicken in four-lane traffic and contacted a therapist. This’d be more of a bing! if the therapist had replied to my email yet, so I don’t as yet know if I have a therapist or need to try some more emailage and nail-chewing. But I’m trying to do something about the depression. Something more than alternating apathy with weepy grouchiness.