My period began, eventually, after a lot of spotting and dicking about, on Sunday.
That’s it. Sunday 26th. Suppression starts in three weeks. We’re off.
Therefore and for maximum narrative drive, I had one of the worst first-days-of-period I’ve had since I started using diclofenac suppositories and tramadol. I had been taking NSAIDs since Friday, as advised by my GP, and therefore was reasonably sanguine the Dread Lord Cute Ute would not tear too great a hole in the fabric of space-time, but no. Ha-ha. She went for full on End Of Universe. Poor H, who was angelically rubbing my back, or my feet, or replenishing hot-water-bottles, or rinsing out the basin I’d just been violently sick in, was absolutely shell-shocked by the time the bloody drugs started to work and I finally dozed off, whimpering, on Sunday evening. It is now Tuesday, and I still feel like I have been beaten about the lower back and abdomen with an iron bar.
(And I’m not entirely pleased at Cute Ute’s habit of menstruating violently on or about the anniversary of miscarriages. It’s not even passive-aggressive. It’s aggressive-aggressive. She’ll get a show all to herself on Criminal Minds if she’s not careful).
Anyway! H and I turned to each other and said, with one voice, ‘I hope we don’t have to go through that much more often.’ Grim smiles. I held up my new prescription of diclofenac-per-jacksie and also stated, very firmly, that I had better not need to refill it in four months’ time.
And then we looked at each other. Because either this will work, or I will Take Steps To Abolish Menstruation.