I seem to have flushed my blogging mojo down the lavatory, along with roughly a pint of blood and quite a few wads of compressed cotton wool. Hey, let’s talk about that, then! It’s therapeutic!
You see, there was also a nasty 24 hours in which I mis-juggled my various pain-medications. If you take mefenamic acid and tramadol alternately, with a good two hour gap between each type of medicine and at least four hours between tramadol capsules and at least six hours between mefenamic acid powdery collapsing horse-pills, also, take the mefenamic acid on a full stomach, yes, you will feel sicky and bleagh and go off your food, but you will be in less pain.
If, however, you just knock back one of each on top of a medicinal spoonful of peanut-butter and half a glass of milk, your entire gut, from oesophagus to rectal sphincter, will freeze in panic, and the more you try to quell the increasing nausea with peppermint tea, the more liquid, er, volume you are pouring into this now, suddenly, closed and finite system. It will have to go somewhere, and you will vomit, and you will have been in quite massive pain all afternoon, and when you have vomited, genteelly (ha! HA! Ha ha HAH!), into a plastic washing-up bowl, while kneeling on the bed half-naked and sweating profusely, you will see the tramadol capsule *ahem* reappear utterly untouched. So you won’t be that surprised it failed to, well, kill any pain.
But now you won’t have had either medication in your bloodstream for a while and the whole thing will be out of control for the rest of the night and most of the next day despite sticking rigidly to your swallowing schedule. And, my God, it will hurt.
And I thought it hurt a lot when I had been swallowing and, importantly, digesting the damn pills.
It is commonly suggested that a big glass of wine and a slab of chocolate are good comforting items to have about during a nasty outbreak of menstruation. Alas, but even on a good month, when I’m not tremulously ferrying bowls of my own puke to the lavatory as a prelude to kneeling down in rather a hurry and worshipping the porcelain god face-to-face (which always feels peculiarly dumbass if you’ve still got the full bowl right beside you. How many bowls should one woman need, anyway? Answer: ALL OF THEM), there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to keep alcohol or sugar down on the worst two/three days. I remember the happy, happy months of yore when I was on the pill and indeed would curl up with the Shiraz, a bar of something expensive, a hot-water-bottle and full control of the remote with hot-and-cold-running-H on stand-by and still snivel and bitch about cramps and the immense suckitude of womanhood. How I miss them.
Now, however, I am feeling positively chipper, thank you, if a little anaemic, and am, indeed, writing this with an empty G&T glass by my side and a square of black chocolate balanced on the arm of the chair. H insists chocolate is rich in iron, and who am I to argue.
Just because I have issues (you may have noticed), and also spent an unfortunately formative chunk of childhood and adolescence being told that there was nothing wrong with me and I should stop snivelling on the instant, does the following seem excessive to you? (Well, yes, it is TMI, but you did read the tagline, didn’t you?) Keeping in mind I do have adenomyosis – mind you, I am told a lot of women have it and never notice they have any such thing (WTF?) :
On a day by day basis, May’s body does this during menstruation:
- spot, with increasing vigour as the day goes on;
- bleed lightly and a little clottily;
- bleed like a stuck pig also clottily;
- bleed like a whole ‘nother, larger, haemophiliac pig also clots of alarming size;
- bleed lightly with maybe one brief outbreak of downpour;
- spot, but retaining option on sudden brief downpour;
- WTF still spotting;
- no, wait, still spotting.
Physical sensations go:
- owie. Really owie. Really, really owie now;
- OW OW OW OW JESUS OW;
- speechless and writhing with agony, also, can’t eat, think, or stand up without crumpling to the floor, have no swearwords to describe it, have, however, been known to cry sweatily;
- OW OW OW OW FUCKING HELL I’M DYING;
- owie STABBING CRAMP owie, still walking hunched over and very slowly in case I joggle anything and get kebabed by nineteen shards of glass;
- all done now OW OW OW, no, really we’re done OW;
- what the hell is up with my ovary? It really stings. I’m not ovulating prematurely again, am I?
- ouch, Satsuma, shut up;
- it all seems to have gone quiet…
- sodding ovary.
I went back to work on day 4, heavily drugged, and got two ‘you look tired’, two ‘you look pale, are you OK?’ and one ‘you’ve got a hangover, haven’t you?’. Also, a ‘can you do an extra shift?’ and one woman shouting at me because I was disinclined to do her personal photocopying for her for free, and after all, I should’ve, because SHE’S DYSLEXIC WHICH MEANS SHE HAS TO TALK TO LIBRARIANS IN CAPS YES! ALSO TELL THEM THEY ARE REALLY UNHELPFUL AND HAVE RUINED HER DAY AND ARE LYING ABOUT NOT BEING ABLE TO HELP HER! I considered saying, ‘lady, my entire fucking family are dyslexic and are also massively endowed with entitlement issues, and not one of them has ever tried to get some woman on tramadol to do their photocopying for them for free. And the fact you refuse to go upstairs and speak to the help-desk about what you are and are not entitled to in terms of help and service from us is ringing my bullshit bell.’ But I was too tired and stoned, so I just stared mulishly at her until she went away. And then I went home late and got shirty with H, as you do. Well, not as you do. I’m sure none of my Gentle Readers have ever got all tetchy with their spouse for having the effrontery to go home earlier than they said they would and offer to cook dinner. (It’s just, I wanted pizza. And as what with the gut-malfunction and the loss of pre-menstrual bloat and the exercise I did last week, I’d just lost six pounds, I was having pizza. End of. (pizza slightly unsatisfactory after all that. Too… doughy. Effin’ diet, ruining my ability to happily carb my face off)).
Anyway. Onwards. Cycle whateverthefuck. Let the baby-makin’ sex-and-fretting biathlon commence.