This post is a massive vent. You have been warned. It has not been the jolliest week of my life. When am I due a jolly week? Damn it all.
Item: H’s Grandfather died. He had been very ill, and very senile, for quite a while, so this was not unexpected and is, in fact, a blessing. At least, it is a blessing for his family, who were worried and tired and sad, watching him go so slowly down the long dark slope into the shadow-lands. Now it’s over. Of course, he may have been rather enjoying his muddled and frail existance. We can’t know. He couldn’t tell us. But it’s over. H has no idea how he feels – he doesn’t even feel numb and shell-shocked because we were expecting it. H doesn’t really like talking about it at the moment.
We will be going to H’s family for the funeral next week. Straight after having spent Easter with my father. Which will, no doubt, provide ample blogging material too, oh, lucky me.
Item: We went to stay with my family, at least, with the Matriarch Section, for a long weekend. Several aunts and uncles were there too, as we were celebrating various birthdays. Of course, everyone wants to know how I am. So I attempt to tell them. I had got approximately as far as ‘Well, I’ve had a lot of tests recently, and my specialist thinks I need to have surgery…’ before the Assvice started. Not that they even knew surgery for what, what tests, and how else I’ve been. Aunt Hippy (who I’m normally very fond of) instantly started telling me about a new fasting diet that would eliminate mould from my cells (what? I mean, what?). She has been doing it herself, which probably explains why she looks gaunt and somewhat older that her actual age. I tried to explain that as a person who had just been diagnosed with a lovely case of anaemia, fasting was so totally not good for me. At this point she and my sister (who I shall name Trouble), started discussing the respective merits of various mineral supplements to go with the fast, and also enemas, so the news that I had developed the irritating habit of bleeding in a hospitals and doctors way kinda got lost somewhere between nettle soup and german colonic irrigation specialists. Aunt Hippy still blithely of the opinion that I need to purify my body (and, oh yes, lose weight) and that would sort everything out. Except that fibroids don’t go away just because you’ve screwed your metabolism and prematurely aged your face by eating nothing but raw vegetables for a month, or the NHS would be prescribing that, because it’s a hell of a lot cheaper for them than going in there with micro-scissors.
Item: Trouble and her husband (who we shall name Fucktard for, oh, no reason) are separating in that long, slow, painful, drawn-out, mixed-message-exchanging, soap opera way. Trouble has taken to bitching about Fucktard in front of her bright, precocious three-year-old daughter (Minx). As a child of divorced parents myself, I remember feeling immense shame on the (rare) occasions when my mother lost her temper and bitched about my father in front of me. After all, he was half of me. Therefore half of me was horrible and unacceptable. So I think Trouble should a) know better and b) shut the fuck up.
Item: My youngest sister, Diva, got into a row with my mother, on my mother’s birthday, and was so appallingly rude to her I temporarily lost my mind and intervened as peace-maker. Which, err, didn’t work. And I got an earful too. As I am on Provera and still feeling a bit egg-shell precious, I cried. And told Diva she was cruel. And Diva cried and said we were all out to get her and hated her. And that my mum had only had her (Diva) to patch up her relationship with Diva’s father. Now, the only person in the entire family who holds this opinion is Trouble, who is Opinionated the way Cok.e is carbonated, and has Issues the way pomegranates have seeds. So I can only assume Trouble has said this to Diva at some point, for mysterious sibling-rivalry reasons of her own. Diva is only a teenager. Trouble is thirty years old. I have never so longed to hunt Trouble down at her work place, put her over my knee and spank her. Malicious, shit-stirring little bitch.
But I got over myself, and I was polite to her for the rest of the visit. Because, partly, my mum now had enough to be dealing with without every single one of her offspring wanting to scratch the others’ eyes out.
Oh, and then, on saying goodbye, Aunt Hippy told me I could visit her before the surgery so I could do the purifying fast with her, and that would help with my little health problem.
Little. Health. Problem.
May promptly went purple trying to bite tongue, count four, hold breath and say goodbye nicely all at the same time. May succeeded, but May deserves to be beatified by this point.
Got home, went to doctors, got blood-test results, and yes, my iron levels are half what they should be, and yes, my red blood cells are pathetic, and yes, I am pretty damn anaemic. So I am allowed to feel weepy and exhausted for the next few weeks, until the iron pills (side-effects, bloating and constipation) have done their work.
On the plus side, my thyroid panel is normal. And I have lost half a stone since the beginning of March (seven pounds, or just over three kilos). I have NOT been exercising. We’ve decided the provera is raising my metabolic rate. Am so bloated nothing fits anyway. Must sort out outfit for funeral next week and dear friend’s wedding that weekend.