Quick update first: The doctors sent my MIL home to ‘rest’, which I think is doctor-speak for ‘we haven’t a clue what’s wrong, but as you spent three nights in hospital without exploding or collapsing, we think it’s safe to let you out again.’ While she was in there, she had a CT scan and a lumbar puncture (actually, eight lumbar punctures, by the time the tomfool trainee gave up trying to get the needle in the right place and called the expert. This makes May cross. May turning green and swelling now. Argh). And indeed, they couldn’t find a thing wrong with her. Which is something, I suppose, but one doesn’t topple over clutching one’s head for no reason at all. If they mention ‘stress’ to her, I might run all the 100 miles over there and slap the doctors myself.
As it was, we sent flowers.
And now for the TMI. Sunday morning I scrambled out of bed at the half-assed hour of five-thirty am to change tampons, cussing and trying not to open my eyes in case I actually woke up or anything. Later, I needed to change that tampon. To my horror, I couldn’t find the string. Oh, well, I was that woman who one fine dawn inserted a tampon without taking the wrapper off first (which rather shortened its useful life-span), so I assumed I had simply not unravelled the string. There followed an interval that I spent in a most undignified posture before coming to the irritating conclusion that I had actually put the damn thing in upside down. For some minutes I contemplated the joy of trying to get a medical person of some sort to go in after it on a SUNDAY, which would probably involve a great many hours sitting about in A&E (ER, I believe our transatlantic cousins call it). I then contemplated calling to H for help. H doesn’t like blood and his fingers are no longer than mine. Maybe not, then. So it was down to me, a great deal of bad language, and patience. And as I sat there triumphant at last, gore trickling down my wrist, I thought, I am so sick of the sight of my own blood. And, if the Provera doesn’t work, I am this close to demanding a hysterectomy and be damned to it.
All that excess information by way of letting you know how very sincerely I mean the following sentiment:
Oh, Provera, how I love you.
(Also, how did I get to 31 while still being such a clutz?)
I have been taking a rather large dose (20mg) of oral provera for four days now. So far, I have not developed massive headaches, sleepiness, upset tummy, or demented inner bitch. I have, however, stopped bleeding.
That’s right. I. Have. Stopped. Bleeding. I even trotted out for several hours with no, none, absolutely nada sanitary protection, and my gusset remains spotless. I think I might have to show it H when he gets in from work.
There’s not every man who can claim his wife greets him at the door with her knickers determinedly off.