In my last post, I said that the drama seemed to be over. Hah! I say. Hah! I got to the end of my pill packet, and awaited my period. Oh, OK, not my period. My ‘withdrawal bleed’.
It. Was. Horrible.
Extremely heavy, and extremely painful, and I had to work the Saturday shift and couldn’t really get out of it without seriously disadvantaging my fellow librarians, as the library is a bugger to run with a full weekend complement (we are lobbying for more staff at weekends). I spent the day necking painkillers and tranexamic acid, and going to the loo every hour-and-a-half, and exhausted, and tetchy, and making so many mistakes that really, it’s going to take some other poor sod all Monday to unravel it all. And someone barged in on me while I was on the loo (sodding lock). And someone got into a fight with me because I wouldn’t let him bring food into the library. Why, in fact, do they always act up when the poor librarians are really not up to it? Can they smell weakness, like wolves? Went home this close to tears.
H has been sleeping in the other room, because I thrash about so much at night, trying to get comfortable, he can’t sleep either. And because he hasn’t been floored by sleep deprivation, I got to spend Sunday in bed while he did absolutely everything for me. Tea on demand. Breakfast in bed, lunch in front of the telly. It would have been perfect bliss if it hadn’t been for the almost constant pain. Ibuprofen merely knocked the sharper corners off. It used to work. Why has it stopped?
Still crampy today (why still crampy? The bleeding is stopping. What the hell is going on in there?).
I don’t know what to do about this. Take the pill for months on end with no gaps? Put up with it? Remember to start taking the tranexamic acid as soon as I start spotting instead of forgetting about it until It Is Already Happening? (I think that might just help).
I have told the people who need to know at work that I am waiting for surgery, so I can take the day off if it’s all too much. I should stop being so damn puritanical about this. No, uterine disorders are NOT embarrassing. No, you shouldn’t go into work when you’re suffering. No one wants to watch you flail about and complicate things. OK?
In other news, the MIL has developed a nasty infected skin rash, and despite having tested every organ and bodily fluid they can think of, they can’t work out what on earth is causing it. My MIL is the past master of inexplicable ailments. My FIL on the other hand bounces about being amazingly healthy and full of energy at all times in all places. I can only assume she’s a sort of bad-luck lightening rod, and gets his share of crapola. Poor woman. I ought to send her a card. I will, the moment I can get over myself (and if it stops raining for ten minutes. What is it with the weather? I thought this was May already?).