Do you know, I have lost over a litre of blood since Wednesday afternoon? The NHS says anything over 80 or 90 mls in one period counts as worryingly heavy. Funnily enough, I am not happy about this, and have decided that Provera is Beelzebub’s own crack-cocaine, all joyous promise and psychotic come-down. Those happy two weeks of not bleeding at all, and no side-effects either, not even the famous Progesterone Boob-ache, and for what?
I went into work on Friday (yes, I know, mad) and spent all of it running back to the loo or leaning against the water-cooler as a very picture of apathy. And the cramps have been Horrible. So I spent Saturday in bed.
Today I felt so nauseous and dizzy I actually ended up in a telephonic pass-the-parcel round of trying to see if I could get hold of an out-of-hours GP, via the NHS Direct help-line, the local surgery, some health-service-providing agency or other, and ending in an interview with a nurse who kept having to go and ask the doctor in the the next room something, prompting me to wonder rather vaguely whether it wouldn’t make more sense to have the doctor come to the phone, but what do I know? I was half off my head from blood-loss after all. We all decided, in the end, that as long as I didn’t fall to the floor unconscious, it was not worth my while going to the A&E, and that I needed to see my own GP tomorrow, urgently, and meanwhile take ibuprofen and drink lots and lots of water.
So I did.
But I wasn’t happy about it.
However, the bleeding seems to be slowing to merely annoyingly heavy, and I am feeling less vague and ill, so perhaps either All Things Have an End, or the ibuprofen is working.
Or maybe it’s just biding its time, because collapsing or bleeding out in a doctor’s waiting office surrounded by small children and elderly men is verily my fate.
H has been an absolute brick. He has been sensitive, caring, gentle, comforting, he has looked after me, he has gone on multiple missions to the chemist for great big boxes of tampons and towels, and he even bought me a mooncup, in case it helped with the leaking and cramping (I am having Issues with the mooncup, but I do think it’s hardly fair on it or me to try and learn to use it correctly now. Rather like taking a novice white-water-rafting over the Niagara Falls. I have high hopes for it generally). He is making me dinner as I type this. I know I have moaned before about his blokeish confusion about empathy. I take it all back. H is The King of Loveliness.
Men! Never underestimate the attractiveness of Being Nice! Even in all this unpleasantness, I find myself looking admiringly at his back-side as he cooks…