I woke up this morning feeling crampy and disgruntled. I went to the loo, and lo, there was blood.
I spent the day at work feeling spaced out on naproxen sodium, still in a bit of pain (which is fucking annoying, by the way, no matter how many times the Positive Thinking Fairy points out that it’s a lot better than being in a lot of pain), vague, distracted, clumsy, spilt tea down my leg, pinched my thumb in the window-frame, fell off the step-ladder while shelving books (caught self on shelves, which swayed and creaked alarmingly, but luckily all the books that fell off fell off on the other side of the stacks), stared at computer screen for hours, no doubt with mouth hanging open and thin trail of drool making its way to the point of the chin. Menstruating is a seriously flawed and unpleasant business. Intelligent design my dimpled arse.
So. On to cycle whatevertheheythisis – hang on, I’ll check – it’s the 20th since I first stopped taking the pill nearly 4 years ago. Keeping in mind that exactly half of those cycles have been ovulatory. Yes. In four years, I have ovulated ten times. And then we wonder why I can’t get pregnant. Well, I did get pregnant, so, you know, once in ten cycles would be normal if I ovulated ten times a freaking year like real human beings do.
H and I are both feeling a tad frustrated today. By tad, of course, I mean ‘astronomically’. Nearly four years, this has taken. And what with ovulations being so few and far between, getting my period is pretty much like getting tipped back into the Abyss. Will we find ovulation island again? Who can say. Is there a bottom or even a side to this abyss? Again, who can say. Carry on doggy-paddling.