In which we remember what we were talking about

Oh, yes, sorry. I did go to the doctor. I went to the doctor a over a week ago. Let me quickly recap. I have been spotting on and off, but with never more than a week or two between spots, as it were, since the 14th of June. Yes, I know. I’ve just gone and looked at my charts. Bloody Hellfire. On the 17th of August, I started bleeding ‘properly’ (red blood, needs tampons. As opposed to spotting – brown or pink or rusty spots or stains, can get away with no san-pro, may ruin favourite knickers in any case), despite not having ovulated since I started charting. And after that, I settled into a rhythm of bleed-spot-spot bleed-spot-spot for the next five weeks. The bleeds were always very sudden, and heavy enough to embarrass me in public, and I was very lucky to have always been at home or in handy reach of a loo when they happened. Then they’d slowly peter out for a few days… and… gush again. In all this, I nevertheless seem to have ovulated. I got egg-white cervical fluid, a funny stitching pain in right side (where I fondly imagine the malicious satsuma to be lurking), my basal body temperature dipped and then rose and stayed risen for eight days, and I stopped gushing. Spot spot spot, but hey, I was still rather pleased. A crappy O, but mine own. Day nine, woosh. And no pathetic petering out, oh no. I bleed like a stuck pig (and I grew up on a farm, and yes, I DO know, and yes, very Jude the Obscure, and also, ick, but still) for ten days before I crack.

On Monday, I dragged my haemorrhaging self to the surgery to ask for an appointment, and to my irritated bewilderment I was given one for that very afternoon. I had wanted a day or two’s grace so I could force my husband to come with me and ‘act supportive’ (I suppose, by the way, that I had better think up a suitable nickname for the man. ‘My husband’ makes me feel like Penelope Keith). I thought, briefly, about arguing with the receptionist, but she was approximately half my weight and half my age and I decided that a) I couldn’t face watching her trying to spell my name again and b) I was being a wuss about this doctor visiting thing and really, truly, the husband (haven’t thought of a nickname yet) was considerably worse at being collected and forthright than I was and I could always drag him along NEXT time and anyway, how was I to feel properly martyred if I didn’t go alone and get bullied? and, and I think this crowned it all, I was beginning to leak through the latest super-jumbo hamster-tampon. So I took the appointment and scuttled home.

Only to scuttle back again later. I do live just around the corner from the GP surgery. Tres handy. Husband (husbeast? Him outdoors? Oh, ick) anyway, said man I married was not overwhelmed by the news, as the particular doctor I had fetched up with was Not His Favourite Doctor – unsympathetic, brusque, daft mustache, that sort of thing. I must report that the daft mustache has vanished (shame, I’m quite fond of facial hair. On men. My own Errol Flynn, I am less fond of). Anyway. Doctor Tashless was indeed brusque and matter-of-fact.

But.

And it is a huge but, which is why it got its own mini-paragraph.

Doc Tashless did not:

  • Tell me to lose weight
  • Tell me to go away and keep trying
  • Tell me that all women have difficult periods sometimes (as one doctor once told me, back in the days when I used to faint in pain because I had a dermoid cyst the size of an Agricultural Show Winner grapefruit on my left ovary. Moron).
  • Refuse to look me in the face

Doc Tashless in fact did:

  • Agree at once that this wouldn’t do at all
  • Asked me whether I had gained weight solely because it could be a symptom of thyroid problems
  • In fact, ask a lot of questions about symptoms such as dry skin, unwanted hair, was I coping at work (barely), sleep patterns, acne, how much pain I was in (not much, luckily)
  • Not once in any way hint that this was all my own fault for being so lazy and careless as to get fat (possibly because he himself was not exactly a whippet – moral of story, insist on being treated by fat doctors).
  • Refer me at once for lots of blood tests
  • Write me a prescription for Tranexamic Acid to try and get the bleeding to at least slow the heck down
  • Ask me to come back in a week or two’s time, for an internal exam and to discuss the blood-test results
  • Tell me he hoped I’d feel better soon

I got home to find the bleeding had stopped. I had no idea Tranexamic Acid had such a strong homeopathic effect that the very sight of its name could do the trick. I cheered up immensly.

Obviously the bleeding started up again avec extra blood-clot the next morning. Bang goes another pair of kecks, and also my husband’s (nope, still can’t think of a nickname) track-suit bottoms.

Anyway, the very very gentle and competent phlebotomist at the surgery took my blood that next morning, I started hoovering up six pills a day of the goodly acid (insert Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds joke here), bleeding slowed over the next week and is now, finally, only spotting (seventeen days of the heavy. Seventeen! I want a medal. Preferably made out of chocolate. Also, some horse-shoes to suck). And we are waiting for the results of the bloodtests, so I can go back and get poked in the personals by a mustacheless man my husband doesn’t like much.

It really, really, could be a lot worse.

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