On Thursday, I had a meeting with my Line Manager to Discuss The State Of My Innards. I felt a bit shy about this – I don’t like to share uterivia (that’s my new word – trivia about uteruses. Trivia in the Roman sense of news exchanged in the market-place, therefore uterivia is ipso facto probably TMI and inappropriate. Anyway, where was I?) I don’t like to share with people I have to discuss journal lists with. Journal lists belong in Planet Sensible Employee and uterivia belongs in Planet Bestest Pals, reserved for the sort of people I have witnessed being sick in a pub gutter. The two planets should not collide, if possible. But as the sodding bastard uterus is so inconvenient, I thought Line Manager deserved a highly edited and decorous version of events, with discreet references to pain, anaemia, and inability to provide surgery dates. LM, who is one of the sweetest women Nature ever made and then set in power over people, was that elegant mix of sympathetic, concerned, sensible, and not particularly inquisitive. Also, I am to take time off whenever I need it, as my health is of paramount importance. I wish people wouldn’t say things like that, it always makes me weepy.
Anyway, it was all very good timing, as I shall proceed to explain:
This month, I decided to do the ‘I WILL take a week’s break between pill packets, and I WILL take drugs from the very first teeniest trace of blood, if I have to examine all my toilet-paper with a microscope from Monday onwards, and I WILL spend the weekend in bed’ plan. If it turns out too unpleasant, I reasoned, I can simply take the pill for ever and ever with no gaps ever again ever. So.
As it was, I started spotting on Friday morning, just like last cycle, so I assumed that, like last cycle, I’d spot and be relatively comfortable until mid-afternoon. So I took all my drugs (ibuprofen, tranexamic acid, caffeine) and I went into work.
By the time I reached work, I was so crampy I felt a bit sick. I got through the first hour and a half, more or less, as it was extremely quiet and all I had to do was sit at the Issue Desk and read. Then I went upstairs to the office, where LM caught me leaning on a bookshelf, trying to breathe deeply.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked. ‘You look a little pale.’
And I, galumphing great idiot that I am, said ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you.’ So she went on to discuss how to get the latest delivery of books upstairs and unpacked now that the lift was skulking on the third floor refusing to close its doors again. And I nodded. And then I went to the toilet, and wondered what on earth had possessed me, as I felt like someone had been spending the morning quietly teleporting beer glasses and a large vice into my lower abdomen, and then experimenting with magnets to see if they could get the vice to squeeze anything from across the room.
I did the sensible thing after that. I went back to LM’s desk and told her that, actually, I was feeling rotten and I knew it was very inconvenient of me, but could I go home? She practically carried me out of the building herself, so I took that as a yes.
Of course, I felt a lot better once I had walked from the station to my home.
Don’t worry, it didn’t last. By the time H got home from work I was good and pale again, and also curled up in armchair and refusing to budge.
Today, bloody ow. But I am in fact still in my pyjamas, so there.
So, despite the fact the tranexamic acid is making the bleeding less heavy (in exchange for a most startling array of clots, and anyway, less heavy is not the same as not heavy) I feel like crap, and am seriously considering refusing to come off the pill at all until after the surgery. I have at various points in my career asked about this option, and I know one GP who thinks it’s a good idea, one who thinks it’s a terrible idea, and one who asked me if I wanted to do IVF now.
Any thoughts? Anyone? Bueller?