Item – My ovary is a twat-weasel. She actually went and pretended to ovulate last Sunday. And I was so sure it was ovulation, even though it was on day 10 of the cycle (which led to a WTF spiral-of-doom anxiety attack all of its own). Actually, Satsuma had merely filled herself to bursting with gasoline, cackled like Muttley, and lit a match. Or something similar. Once the conflagration had burned itself out, my temperature went back down and we are back to The Waitening.
Item – H is going away on another business trip on Sunday. And won’t be back until Wednesday night. What are the odds Satsuma the twat-weasel will pop on Wedneday at dawn, making sure I am unfertilizable this cycle?
Item – Adenomyosis is a variant of endometriosis. Only, rather than randomly scattered about the pelvis, the excess and mutinous endometrial tissue is growing in the wall of the uterus itself. Every month, in synch with the rest of the uterine lining, it swells up and bleeds. Only, the blood has nowhere to go. So it… goes nowhere. Ohhh, that sounds pleasant.
Item – Current treatments for adenomyosis – chemical castration by Danazol (androgenic steroid, worst possible thing for a PCOS girl), or GnRH agonists (Lupron. You’ll have heard of it). Some clinics report good results from Mirena coils, as the progesterone slows the growth of all that misplaced endometrium. Only cures – surgical castration by hysterectomy. Or, waiting for the menopause. Can anyone spot the problem here?
Item – Yes, exactly. All ‘treatments’ make it absolutely, cast-iron, totally, utterly impossible to get pregnant.
Item – Admittedly, temporary reprieves can be granted by getting (and staying, ah hah hah hah) pregnant, and breastfeeding. Fuckin’ A.
Item – So, from now on, every time I stagger back to bed from the loo, feeling sick and faint and and knowing that my bladder is going to take less than an hour to fill to a point where it presses directly on the fiery haematoma in the front wall of my uterus and make me wish I was dead, I will do so in the knowledge that this is a choice I made. I choose to endure this, in the faint hope I will still have a baby, a living one. I will do this for the sake of that merely possible baby.
Item – This is not a choice any woman should have to make, and God-damn-fuck but it isn’t fair.
Item – Anyway. I got a good look at myself in the mirrored lift at work this morning (brown cords, bottle-green sweater remarkably like the one I used to wear as part of my school uniform, dark grey bags under the eyes), and I thought ‘bloody hell, I dress like a depressed tree.’ I then mentally reviewed the sartorial troops back home and felt very, very frumpy. So I bought a frock on the way home. With sequins on.
Item – This has everything to do with The Big Posh Do at my mother’s tomorrow evening.
Item – I don’t want to have to explain adenomyosis to my mother, even in a spangly frock. I don’t want to have to explain it to anyone. Maybe if I forget to mention it, it’ll take the hint and cease to exist.