After a few days of spotting and occasional surprise cramp attacks, I started bleeding. So I started taking the tranexamic acid and ibuprofen right away. So far, I am having a heavy, painful period. This is so infinitely more pleasant that a torrential, agonizing period that I feel quite mellow on the whole subject of Provera. And it’s all just as well, as H has flu. Not even man-flu, which manifests in females as a bit of a cold, but real, aching-all-over tonsils-like-strawberries flu. He’s sleeping in the spare room at the moment, so he can snore, cough, sneeze, wheeze and make infuriating little gulping noises in an unconscious attempt to swallow these mysterious and ghastly throat-lumps in peace, and I can go to the lavatory four times a night and then thrash about in bed like a gaffed salmon in peace.
Right in front of me, as I type this, is a box of Fe.modene. It should be M….let, but it appears the manufacturers are having Issues, Lord knows with what exactly, something to do with the antediluvian state of the information on the leaflet, which has to be re-written in case anyone attempts to take a pill in a not quite up-to-the-minute way, and so in their infinite wisdom they have decided it’s simpler not to distribute any M…let. So, having visited three separate pharmacies with a pointless prescription, I caved, in the end, and took it back to the doctors. But this time I got to see deal old Doc Tashless, who showed me that Fem.odene has the very same synthetic hormones in it, so should be just as dandy as M…let ever was. And it was dandy, back in the days when I was not really interested in getting pregnant. I knew to within two hours when my period would turn up, I rarely got spots, my weight was stable for years… Heigh ho. Before that I had tried Dian.ette (put on two stone in three months, acne worsened rather than improved, felt depressed) followed by Marv.elon (put on even more weight, spent my days either crying or shouting at my boyfriend). So, you know, the little M and I had had a good relationship.
I can’t believe I’m sitting here feeling wistful for a brand of contraceptive pill.
But then, I can’t believe quite a lot of things about my life at the moment.
For example, I am having a really hard time with the fact that it would not only be unlikely, but possibly even dangerous, for me to conceive at the moment. I spent a whole year trying to do just that, and it seems I was after all rather lucky that my ovary shut down in self defence. I am finding this surprisingly upsetting. This is possibly partly to do with the fact I went to a GP before I came of the pill, and said, I don’t think all is well with the old Girl Parts, and she said to go away and try for a year, and we did, and with what? And now I have to be grateful I didn’t ovulate. Which gives me heartburn.
And I won’t have surgery until September (which interferes beautifully with going back to University, which is just, argh, gah). So I won’t be able to even think of starting to try again until November. And instead of thinking to myself, well, I am doing a Masters, and I have the novel to finish, and hey, if the pill works and controls the dysfunctional bleeding, then H and I can go back to spontaneous just-for-fun sex, which is nice, so lots to be doing and thinking about and enjoying while we wait for the go-ahead – instead of thinking all that in a firm and stiff-upper-lipped manner, I have gone for the miry ooze of the Slough of Despond as described in previous post.
And then we went to a wedding last weekend. The bride, a dear old friend, looked delightful, and the whole day was lovely, and we met some very nice people we hadn’t seen for ages, and despite the presence of some few assorted cute infants, nobody asked us about our reproductive habits and plans, so I could get on with adoring the infants in peace. Of course, collectively, babies are bawling, dribbling, nappy-filling bores. But the individual babies are invariably just so damn cute.
And then I saw the photos. Dear God in Heaven, but who is this vast woman in my cute red dress? And why the hell did I wear a red dress? It’s so conspicuous. In oh, far too many photos, there’s this scarlet blob, obscuring vast tracts of background even when in the background, surrounded by slender people in tasteful pastels.
The only functional part of my reproductive system is the damn fallopian tube, and I look like an arm-chair with glasses on.
Current state of mind, bone-weary, apathetic self-loathing.