First up, Pamela Jeanne made me cry today, in a good way, so, you know, we’re all into nose-blowing and group hugs chez May today. PJ is one classy lady – go over and tell her I said so.
Second, the Ovary, she is messing with me. This is day six, yes, six, of ‘extremely fertile signs’ with no distinct ovulation and I do rather wonder what in hell is going on in there. Not content with this mayhem, I felt distinct, and distinctly like last time, and painful, well, pains, in my left-hand lower abdomen today. Left-hand. I stopped in my tracks and addressed my innards thusly: ‘Dear Innards, you are aware, surely, that there is no actual ovary on that side to be having ovulation pains? No, nor fallopian tube neither. It’s gas, and you are kidding no one.’
The Innards paused for a few seconds, and then cheerfully shifted their efforts over to the right-hand lower abdomen.
I’ve probably actually got appendicitis, she added gloomily.
The Death March Sex did in fact die last night, into the bargain, and so, of course, it’ll be ovulation because my ovary has nothing to ovulate at. Had we been at it like knives until the small hours, it would most certainly be colic.
I have a long post, no, two long posts, brewing. One for the Stirrup Queen’s Twelve and a Half Fighting Back blogtavism extravaganza, and one about Christmas. Because, hey, no infertile person’s life is complete without the Holidays to seriously rub your face in it. Both posts still brewing because I am a headachy tired whiny wreck of a personality at the moment and in any case, I am feeling worryingly behind on the old studying lark. Must study. Studying is good. Mmmm… brains.