Yesterday afternoon, I thought I might be ovulating. I was getting quite a sharp pain in my ovary region, and, golly, was this a touch of scarlet spotting I saw before me? Ovulating on day 15 of this cycle? Really? Unbelievable, I thought.
Last night I wondered if I might be having some kind of ruptured ovarian cyst problem. I was bleeding more and more, and feeling more and more pain in said ovary region. Arse, I thought. I knew it was too good to be true. Satsuma, stop kicking me, thank you.
Before dawn, I was still awake, lying in a huddle on the In-Law’s sofa bed, in pain and making various chemist-raiding plans (I had no sanitary protection, I had no pain-killers. There was no way in crikey I was going to need either. Day 15, see?), when a little, calm, ironical voice in the back of my head said, ‘oh, and a pregnancy test.’
‘What would I need one of those for? It’s day 15.’
‘Humour me,’ said the little voice.
When H woke up, I asked him if he’d pleasepleaseplease go to the chemist and get me some tampons and, oh, a pregnancy test. H looked at me as if I was delusional, and quite rightly. ‘Just… humour me. Worst case scenario paranoia,’ I said. He duly came back with a box of tests.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
And then my Father-in-Law drove us the 20 miles to the nearest A&E, and that’s where I spent the afternoon. Pregnant. Bleeding. In pain. With a suspected ectopic. In a hospital gown, with a drip needle in my hand. Waiting for my blood test results while other denizens of the Deepest Country-side wept and bellowed and giggled and gossiped in cubicles all around me.
Beta came back at 33, which makes no sense at all. Did I mention this was day 16 of this cycle? And that my last period was quite as heavy and clotty (ie, very) as usual? (Oh, why so I did.) They sent me home with instructions to come back for another Beta in 48 hours (umm, whoops, on New Years’ Day, that’d be), or if I collapse or haemorrhage or explode or whatever.
So, you know, re-write of Halloween. What is it with me and festivals? What on earth shall I manage for Easter?
Dear 2009, please fuck off, you absolute puddle of arse-gravy of a year.