Guess what? I’m back on provera. To deal with the effects of coming off provera. Indeed, it most certainly is my Precious’s own favourite crack-cocaine.
And I am waiting for the results of another round of blood tests – sure, why not, I could spare some, heh heh – to check for thyroid screw-up and/or anaemia, as my Specialist and the nice GP I saw emergency-wise on Monday night each have their own ideas as to why I am SO. DAMN. TIRED. But hey, the phlebotomist is adorable and has the gentlest way with a needle I have ever encountered. It helps that I’m lucky and have a Star Vein that pops up neat as anything in my left elbow-crook (now sporting an adorable little penny-sized bruise. Memo to self, when the phlebotomist asks you to press down on the cotton wool, he really rather means it).
And I didn’t faint.
Though I did consider it.
I am also on ibuprofen, tranexamic acid, and ferrous sulphate. The bleeding has slowed down to merely heavy and crampy. And with the return of some energy and brain-function, so have I become Madam Cranky again (sorry, H). H’s theory is that it’s the tranexamic acid that brings out my inner killer bunny, as I was spectacularly foul last time I was on it. It’s not a recognised side-effect according to the leaflet, but hey, I am an original.
Now, of course, we are in the process of Telling Family. We did discuss Not Telling Family, and I was very tempted, because Family, really, are the most excellent purveyors of opinion, instruction, and fretting, none of which makes May happy. So we did a little Cons and Pros list.
Cons of telling family:
- Bloody hellfire, but the assvice. This is a specialty of my female relatives. They could give an nuclear physicist assvice on how to build a particle accelerator.
- My Mum, bless her heart, did go through a phase of not taking any illness I had seriously at all and of accusing me of malingering. Especially when it came to gynaecological complaints. Even after I collapsed with ovarian torsion in my late teens. She has stopped doing this of late, and does treat it all rather more seriously, and me with rather more respect. Nevertheless I don’t feel entirely safe discussing these issues with her. Which is probably just me being bitter and twisted. So it probably doesn’t count.
- My Dad’s standard reaction to hearing a loved one is unwell is to find an audience and stage a bit of a panicky ‘Woe is me, I am so very worried, how will I endure the tormenting fear my child’s illness causes in me?’ session until someone gives him a drink. Whereapon he gets maudlin. This is very amusing when it’s not your insides he is decrying for giving him high blood pressure.
- H’s parents are rather less Woody Allen. Nevertheless, they have a lot of other issues to worry about at the moment and they DO worry, a lot, and I do not want to up their worrying quotients as I’m sure they are well over their worry footprint for this life-time.
- Oh, and H’s grandmother combines ‘Woe is Me,’ and spurious eastern pick’n’mix philosophy assvice very elegantly when she is so inclined. Also, asks questions. Me, I do not discuss uteri with grandmothers-in-law.
Pros of Disclosing All:
- Even the minutest and most accidental fragment of information is Too Much as they then of course Ask Questions. And then ask each other questions and share idiotically garbled versions complete with criminal exaggerations and then give me assvice based on those and I want to poke my own eyes out with a spoon after a few minutes of this. It may well be preferable to be in charge of the versions.
- And if family member A knows something B does not, A will not doubt let it slip, and then B will be wounded because B should have heard it from us, damn it. And that’s Christmas ruined for the next seven years.
- The news might actually stop my sister from ordering me to give her little girl a cousin to play with practically every time she sees me. At least, until after the surgery (she doesn’t seem to believe in PCOS. Much easier to believe in things that need to be removed surgically).
- And then everyone knows I am really ill and that explains all the times I was busy moping and not, oh, I don’t know, briskly enjoying the washing-up or agreeing to take every cousin I have under the age of 14 for a long walk with seven dogs and a pony. Not moping. Suffering. See?
So, we are telling family.
H told his mother. She sent her love. She also told him all the complicated things that were happening in her life. We sent our love. A state of one-all.
I told my mother. She is completely shell-shocked and now has taken to calling me back twice an evening to regale me with every anecdote of uterine surgery she has ever heard of. She also instantly, but instantly, announced that she was going to get me a consultation with a Harley Street specialist for a second opinion.
And then she asked permission to discuss it with my sister, because it is a ‘major thing’. I said yes, because saying no would be immaterial to the outcome, and I don’t want to have that discussion as well. So when I go down to see the lot of them on Sunday, they will have had plenty of time to prepare their assvice attacks, both the concerted version and the hit-and-run opposition moments in corners. Gah.
See what I mean? Madam Cranky. To the bone. Pass the provera.