Monthly Archives: September 2011

Fate does not want me to have any fun at all ever

Item – OMG shut up, uterus. I’ve given you more painkillers. You behaved quite well for 24 hours, and now this afternoon you have to kick off again? Please be reasonable. Please.

Item – H has gone to a party. I was supposed to go too, but I felt so tired and achy this morning, I bowed out. And now I am crampy as all-Gehenna, so this was clearly a wise decision. Justification is vaguely satisfying, but I think I’d rather be sat at home feeling fine and going ‘huh!’ to myself while I crack open the ice-cream in front of Miss Marple.

Item – The Universe has a strange sense of humour. You remember back in May we had a moth problem, and the little fuckers ate a hole in the carpet (also, infested my knitting yarn and ruined the trousers of H’s best suit)? We hoovered and scrubbed and covered the house in moth-traps and put cedar and lavendar in everything else and half my yarn ended up in the freezer (a few weeks’ freezing should kill moth eggs). Well, tomorrow, H and I are going to stay with my convalescent mama for a few days, and then we visit his family, and then we have a few days just for us, holidaying, before his new job starts. Would this be a good time for The Return of the Moth? Well? Exactly. I am so annoyed. Also crampy.

Item – And then, we found the distinct and tell-tale leavings of a mouse on the draining-board this morning (on the draining-board. Where we put clean dishes. *Retch*). We are Officially Infested With Vermin. I want to burn the flat down and run away.

Item – I really didn’t want it to be a good idea for me to stay home while H partied because one of us needed to scrub the flat top to bottom before we left for a week.

Item – Bugger.


Exactamundo, compañera.

a sent me this image.

Image from mildlyamused.tumblr.com


Must just whine

Aaaand here’s my period, as expected. Alas, the delightful 14-day luteal phase of the last cycle appears to have been a fluke, as this one was only 12 days. Ah well.

Seven cycles since my last (chemical, minutes-long, gah) miscarriage. I am ovulating every damn month, earlier and earlier, I pretty much have ‘normal’ cycles these days, and H and I are having so much well-timed sex, and I’m not getting pregnant. Why? My age? Fried eggs? (a year ago my AMH levels were fabulous, six months ago my FSH was normal. They can’t be that friend, can they?). Tired sperm? (nine months ago, H’s SA was nicely normal. Again). Fallopian tube blocked by fibroid? Blocked by endometriosis? Ovary pulled out of range by scar tissue?

I keep reminding myself, I’m having a laparoscopy and dye in November and then we’ll know. However, I’m vapouring, because if it is the fibroids, they won’t be able to do anything about it there and then, and there’ll be months of hanging about waiting to see if I should or even can have a myomectomy. Or, there won’t be anything in particular blocking anything and it’ll be filed under ‘unexplained’ and I will run screaming through the streets, tearing my hair and clothing from me.

Meanwhile, I am in pain and nauseous, and though the drugs are helping a lot (to wit, I am writing this and not lying on the bathroom floor with my head on the toilet-seat), it has still been a rough day, and tomorrow is traditionally rougher. Heigh ho.

*Orchestra of three hundred teeny tiny violins playing the Symphony Pathétique*


Relief

You’ll remember that several months ago, H was told that he and all who sailed with him were going to be out of a job come the new year?

I can now, at last, officially announce that H has a new job. Hurrah!

We went to look at his new place of employment last week, and good Lord, there’s some grand offices there. It makes his previous place look like a hutch for dwarf rabbits. Naughty dwarf rabbits who were being punished for whatever it was they did to the nice things. I’m intimidated by the splendour. I wonder how H feels? I can’t tell – all he ever talks about is distributed computing architecture and implementation schedules.

I do so love that man.

In other ‘oh, thank fuckitty, the relief!’, my mother came through her surgery very well. I had a lovely evening of worrying myself to the edge of puke, ringing my step-Dad and sister over and over again with no answer, until I finally got hold of Trouble, who chirruped ‘why, were you worried?’ at me in a manner so startlingly annoying I was reduced to outraged silence for minutes.

But all is well, and Mum is OK, and they didn’t find anything terrifying in there, and now we shall all relax.

Oh, and I had my annual review thingy at work, and that also went very well. My boss is tigerishly protective of me and my health, and told me my productivity when I am at work is so high it more than makes up for the absences. This was such a nice thing to say I had to go and have a little cry in the stationary cupoard afterwards.

So despite the fact I’m as crampy as heck and the Crimson Tide is rushing towards me like a tidal wave, I feel quite chipper this evening.


Stand down, Forces of Righteousness

Oh, I have a happy. I called my mother again, to make myself feel worse, no doubt, and to my inordinate joy she told me that my sister Trouble will be making herself useful in the nursing-and-tea-making capacities after all.

Hurrah! My sister is all grown-up!

So we have a schedule. As soon as Mum gets out of hospital, Trouble will look after her (I will be indisposed). As for Trouble’s other commitments, a friend will come over for one of those days. Then H and I are going down on Sunday (when I am hopefully redisposed), and then one of my many aunties will stay with her for a few days, and by then Mum should be much better and able to lift her own kettle.

And I will have to do very little indeed and certainly none of it while exsanguinating and off my face on tramadol. Yay!

I note my step-Dad is still being about as much use as a chocolate fire-guard. It’s because he was sent to boarding-school at the age of five, I’m morally certain.

Anyhow. I feel ever so much better.

*Twiddles fingers*


Nothing to report except my bad temper

There are things I don’t really know how to deal with at the moment. No idea. At all. They pop up and my brain melts and my limbic system screams ‘HULK SMASH!’ and I have to drag myself bodily to the toilets for cold water and a talking-down:

  • Those (mercifully few, for me, but dear God they’re persistent) people who trump every word out of my mouth with a yes, well, you should try that with kids! It doesn’t matter if I’ve mentioned getting up early to watch the Rugby World Cup or how ill my periods make me. You should try that with a kid! You have no idea until you’ve had a kid! It’s so much harder when you have a kid! All I can say is, ‘harder’ is not the same as ‘worse’.
  • More seriously, my mother called this week, practically begging me to go down to see her after her surgery. Satsuma, efficient and productive as she now is, nevertheless has a warped sense of humour, and I will be menstruating at that point. I will be as much use to her as a soap herring in a thunderstorm. Gah. What I would also like to know is, where in Buttfuck Ohio are my two adult sisters, also my mother’s adult husband? I’d get it if she wanted to see me out of sheer love, but actually she’s scared of being on her own in the house with nobody to look after her – I know this because she told me so. Again, where in Buttfuck are my sisters and step-Dad in all this? They all live with her. I live over an hours’ journey away, I can’t drive, and I will be puketastically uselessly in need of a nurse myself, but I’m the one who has to drop everything and run. But them? They are having ‘previous commitments’, apparently. And are ‘not very good at this sort of thing’. Ohh, fuck them all. Useless twunts.
  • The Two Week Wait generally. Same-old same-old symptoms (heart-burn, sore breasts, tiredness, hypersensitive sense of smell). Waiting. Uncertainty. Not much in the way of hope. Tense anticipation of being ill and in pain in a few days’ time. Oh, golly, this is making me grumpy. Grumpier, anyway. Tetchy, even.
  • I have not touched coffee (or liver, or rare meat, or unpasturised cheese, etc. etc.) for over a week. I basically spend a week in a rage because 98% of me is 98% sure there’s absolutely no point in doing this whatsoever. I had a (large) piece of black chocolate on the way home yesterday evening. I was completely hyper for about three hours afterwards and talked nonstop throughout. This is what the lack of caffeine does to me.

Where, oh where, is my sense of proportion?

Item – So. Currently. Mother is having surgery in less than a week. Father is having surgery in less than a month. I am having surgery in just over two months. *Hyperventilates*

Item – My annual review at work is on the same day my mother is having surgery. Bugger and damn.

Item – I have been off sick so amazingly often this year, that any normal employer would have fired me. From a cannon. Luckily, Higher Ed. in Britain is Not Normal, but this jolly state of affairs will not survive the increasing removal of government support long.

Item – A possibility of a job at another place, promotion, better pay, came up, alas too late for me to complete the application process (my inside source was not on the ball. Eh). But it did put me in a ferment. I am bored of my job. Not all of it, admittedly. I still like the geeky back-office bits. I’m just sick of dealing with people, fetching and carrying, and not being allowed to use my own initiative (my boss, who I actually quite like, is very against initiative, and very pro checking every tiny detail of everything with her. This Does Not Suit My Temperament). On the other hand, my place of employment is miraculously understanding about the sick-leave, I like most of my colleagues, and I have earnt good maternity leave as well (Bwahahahahahahaha! HAH!).

Item – And anyway, I’m not sure I want to carry on working for people. I have savings. I could go freelance.

Item – The savings will help pay for either a) a mortgage, b) IVF if it comes to that, c) being a stay-at-home parent, or d) going freelance. They will not cover all of the above, or more than one of the above. I am so fucking screwed.

Item – And there’s the sex thing. OK, so you may not care particularly, but the vision of The Rest Of My Life sans Sex makes me feel like chucking myself off a bridge, so it’s very much a biggy for me.

Item – I need to go and climb another mountain. Clearly it’s the only thing that stops me fretting myself into a pretzel while awaiting the measured tread of my period, armed to the teeth, laughing mercilessly as she draws ever closer.


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