It is Saturday evening. I have had a week of Satsuma the Party Ovary playing the ‘I did! I totally did! Naah, didn’t really. But now I did! OK, now I did! Kidding! Not kidding! Kidding! Hee hee hee, isn’t this fun?!?!’ game. My temperature is flailing up and down in a manner I have taken to thinking of as ‘dead cat bouncing’. Something has finally turned off the eggwhite tap, but I Will Not Hope, I Will Not Answer That Doorbell. Satsuma is giving me a disappointed pout right now, but she’s done this to me twice, TWICE, since Monday.
I am tired and pale all the time. As I’m normally a peony-cheeked Rubens of a woman, it looks a little surreal – who turned the contrast down on this mirror? I’m probably only getting over the stupid cough, but I feel like Dracula’s favourite pin-cushion.
And I hate my job. It’s a nice job that (mostly) amuses me and I get on well with all my colleagues and I do so like having a little cash to hand, but I still hate it. It is severely impinging on my favoured plan of lying in bed all day drinking tea and conducting my entire social life via the internets. Also, I can’t knit and read novels at work, as the heartless slave-driving polite and good-natured female who manages me actually expects me to actually do what I’m paid to do or some such unreasonableness.
I even bought a new sweater to cheer myself up. It’s a very nice sweater. I look at it and think ‘meh’.
If this cycle ever comes to an end (I suppose it will, as eventually I will crack and use the provera, surely?), I get to endure another HSG. I don’t want to. Not that I’m scared of the procedure itself (last time was really not so very bad, after all). But what if the One-And-Only Fallopian Tube is blocked now? I’d have to know about it, and then deal with it. *shudder*.
My Father-in-Law is waiting for open-heart surgery sometime in December. My father has developed a heart murmur. My mother wants us to spend Christmas abroad with her, and Trouble and Diva and their respective male appendages. It’ll be a nice family thing, apparantly. Errr, no.
My face seems reluctant to leave off being rubbed in a grand variety of Ifs, these days.