Monthly Archives: January 2011

Wincing onwards

Item – I was poking about on Google Reader, and noticed I have garnered quite a few more subscribers since Christmas. Hello, new subscribers! How lovely of you to drop by!

Item – The Cute Ute is testing my patience to the fucking limit. Another four days of bad cramps – well, not cramps, as such. It’s the persistent, bruised, burning ache that I get with my period, which feels like someone stamped on me with a spiked and flaming boot. And I’ve been spotting quite heavily, unnervingly heavily on Wednesday. Dr Google tells me this often happens to women with adenomyosis. Dr Google also went on and on about endometrial biopsies, polyps, fibroids, cancer, Alien (do I look like John Hurt?) and surprise pregnancies.

Item – I took a pregnancy test anyway, as mid-cycle pain and bleeding did, once, memorably, equal suprise! You’re pregnant! It was negative. Given the gettin’ jiggy drought my grumpy uterus has imposed, this is absolutely correct and according to the Laws of Nature.

Item – Being so sore and crampy all the time is doing wonders for my productivity at work. Ha ha.

Item – I am sick of my job. I can do it, I am good at it, I am more than a tad under-stretched by it, I am very much underpaid in it (occupational disease of library staff. Even the shelvers have at least two degrees. Anyone’d think we did it for love), the promotion prospects are dreary, it’s all being made needlessly stressful by the ridiculously long commute, chronic understaffing, and some few colleagues who are incompetent and it’s probably rude to add lazy, but I shall anyway. I was only sticking with it for the rather lovely maternity benefits, anyway. Hahahahahaha. At least I’m getting full wackaroony out of the sick-leave arrangements. Oh, God, and there’s that – I take just SO MUCH freakin’ sick leave. Miscarriages. Periods from hell. Migraines. Fucking uterus. Fucking hormones. I worry endlessly about losing this job and then never being able to get another because of my shitty health of shitness. So, my job is stressing me out and making me miserable and, unforgiveably, boring me and I am feeling guilty and scared about it all the time. Ugh.

Item – On the other hand, I have whittled off the fuck-it-it’s-Christmas misery weight, am back at Official IVF weight (were I doing IVF, which I’m not) and can now proceed on down the scale to so-bloody-there weight. I put on a skirt I haven’t worn for a while. It used to be rather tight around the middle. Then it got too tight to wear at all. And now the waist-band is so loose the whole thing keeps sliding asymmetrically down about my hips. Also, I need to buy another pair of jeans. Oh God, how I hate clothes shopping.


It’s no good, I can’t manoeuvre

I was going to tell you all that I felt so, so much better for writing that last post, for getting it all off my chest. I was almost euphoric on Monday morning. This was totally your doing, my dear readers, for all your kind, kind, wise, empathetic, heartfelt, loving comments (essays, even). I felt loved. I felt understood. (Because I’m me, i.e. neurotic as a bag of wet cats, I felt bad that you all felt so bad on my behalf. But you can feel free to ignore this bit).

It all went a bit wrong today, I’m afraid. Work was tiresome, stressful and shitty*. I was in a lot of pain (it’s day 12 of this cycle. I got a lot of cramps about this time during the last cycle as well. No idea what in fucking fuck my uterus is playing at. Possibly growing new endometrium (in all the wrong places). That’d make sense. That’d hurt. Daaaaaaaaaamn). I got home in a bad mood, bitching about feeling sore, trying to do some house-work, and H made a rather dismissive remark, not out of dismissive feeling or grumpiness, but out of sheer not really having heard what I was saying, and I lost it completely. Tears, shouting, full-on ‘my life is ruined, everything I do is a failure’ flailing. H got all defensive and prickly, which made it worse, and ohh, that was an unpleasant and embarrassing hour or so.

(Positive Thinking Fairy wonders if I might be ovulating early this cycle, as I always do seem to lose it completely when I’m gearing up to ovulate. I think I shall get Bitter McTwisted to flush her head down the toilet again).

Anyway. On the other hand, I had salad for lunch, and only one coffee.

While we’re on the subject of salad, I think I shall have to make myself get down to a BMI of 25, and if it works, hurrah, and if it doesn’t, I’ll damn well know I did my best, and also, I can tell my doctors to go fucking fuck themselves. If I never do lose the weight, the thought that I could’ve done, and it might’ve worked, will tear me to pieces.

I think I would like to get drunk now.

*By shitty, I mean it involved a student telling me I wasn’t a ‘proper librarian’ because I was shelving books when he came up to ask for my help finding a book whose title he couldn’t remember, a colleague being a demanding entitled ass, and having to catalogue a book on child abuse prevention for medical professionals with photographs (and if the man responsible for those injuries appeared before me, I would batter him with my office chair until it broke into splinters, were he the size of the Incredible Hulk and a karate black-belt. As it was, I shook for a good 20 minutes after I’d hurriedly put the book down and then fastened it shut with an elastic band. Nasty burn-scar on the mind now).

A building scream

I think I am going to have to go utterly, boilingly, barking-and-mewing mad. It’ll be tiresome and noisy, I know. I’d be sorry about that if I wasn’t mostly preoccupied with not flinging my beloved lap-top across the room and tearing all my hair out. (Perhaps I should do my hair first. There’s a lot of it, and it’ll take a while, and I may have calmed down enough by the end of it to spare the lap-top).

This is a rage, a confused, miserable, frightened and utterly, utterly bitter rage, has been a long time growing in me (a whole lifetime, no doubt).

You see, I am a fat woman. I have been fat for about ten years now. I was also a fat child. Or, to be absolutely accurate, I was a tall well-grown child who started developing breasts at nine, and many people told me I was fat, with particular reference to the Alarmingly Precocious Boobies, so I assumed I simply was. I look back at photos of me at the time and I am so very not fat. A little chubby between nine and thirteen, say, as my hormones tried to work out where the hell to put all this oestrogen-related adipose tissue, but not fat. Adolescence was a royal fucker, and my self-image went to hell in a hand-cart, and a single-sex boarding-school full of neurotic young women with Daddy issues and abandonment issues and body issues of their own is no place for tall, shy, awkward girls with large breasts.

So I stopped eating. And I was very ill as an adolescent (nothing to do with not eating – I had glandular fever (infectious mononucleosis) and I had a gigantic ovarian teratoma, which hurt me for YEARS (no I am not fucking kidding), YEARS before it was diagnosed, and twisted and ruptured my ovary before it could finally be removed). So, I was finally deliciously slender and lithe (with splendid tits), and I was permanently, persistantly, in pain, throwing up, unable to eat, refusing to eat, exhausted, failing at school, and fainting (yes, out cold), up to once or twice a week.

So I spent my twenties getting fat again. And learning not to eat like a deranged person. And learning that being fat is acceptable, attractive even, or at least not the reason why a person is or is not attractive. I dealt with the fact that I comfort eat (my parents had terribly issues around food, love and control, so, funnily enough, so did I, which is why I was a chubby teenager, alone and bullied at school in a different country from most of my family. Give me the damn sweeties already). I got to a point where I could eat a piece of cake or a bowl of ice-cream to soothe myself, and it was no big deal, and I’d have a ‘healthy’ meal later rather than punishing myself by not eating and not eating until I cracked and binged on something else. Admittedly, I was eating enough to get fat, even if a lot of what I was eating was ‘healthy’, as in salady and broccoli-y and lean-chickeny and wholewheaty. But fuck it. Really, fuck it. My blood-pressure was OK, I could go on seven-hour hill-walks, I could touch my toes with my legs straight and stand on one leg long enough to wash my foot in the bathroom sink. My husband thought I was hot. My husband loves booty. I had anovulatory PCOS (well, I used to), but, please understand this, I hadn’t ovulated a-fucking-tall when I weighed 120 lbs either.

Of course, various doctors told me I needed to lose weight – often, offensively, when I’d actually gone to see them about a persistant cough or a sprained knee. At first, this would usually fling me back into a pattern of weird and disordered eating – starving and binging, thinking the Soup Diet was a good idea, cutting out wheat, cutting out breakfast (I still have issues with breakfast. I DO NOT want to eat before nine am. I have to leave for work at 8:30 am. Arseage). In the end, I learnt to ignore them.

Then we wanted to have a baby, and I was anovulatory, and being anovulatory gave me polyps and made me bleed non-stop for five months. I was told then that my weight was contributing to the anovulatory thing and the bleeding, and this time (OK it hurt) I realised there were sound scientific reasons why my fat was Not Good. I lost a little weight, I started ovulating even without Clomid, yada yada yada.

I was told my weight was stopping me ovulating. I was told I was too fat for IVF, as the combination of the hormonal mess of my weight plus the extreme artificial hormonal induction was risky. I got the impression, somehow, that if I was ovulating fairly regularly, my hormones were more-or-less behaving. No one seemed bothered by my short luteal phase (and yes, I mentioned it at pretty much every bloody visit to the fertility clinic).

I lost several pregnancies. I put on a fair ol’ wad of comfort weight. Didn’t stop me ovulating, not a problem. We had tests, all tests were inconclusive, and mostly focused on thrombophilias and karyotyping, and everyone kept telling me to go away and keep trying.

And finally we coughed up big shiny bucks and went to see the world-renowned Professor in recurrent miscarriage, who found that I did actually have a treatable thrombophilia. But that the fat, the fat I had learned to accept, the me that I had finally learned to live with, and not punish and starve and drug with carbohydrates, the me that was, actually, not that fucking fat, and not that fucking unhealthy, who didn’t deserve to be shamed, who didn’t deserve to feel ugly and unworthy, was wrong, bad, damaged and sick after all. Apparently, the fact that my luteal phase is short is an issue. When I ovulate, my hormones are so unbalanced that the corpus luteum doesn’t last long enough, which is a sign that the egg produced may have been damaged, and unable to grow into a normal embryo. Fat women have more miscarriages, The Professor told me. Women with PCOS have more miscarriages. Fat women with PCOS have more miscarriages.

Bitterly ashamed, I chose the least unhealthy and misery-inducing diet I could think of and made myself lose a stone (14 lbs). I had another miscarriage. Despite comfort-eating for weeks over Christmas, I only put on a few pounds, and I’ve lost most of them again. But this time, now, I am doing it by eating like a deranged person. I can’t eat the healthy, low-carb, mucho-salad diet that worked so well over the summer. I can’t stop myself eating a whole bar of chocolate in one go to comfort myself. I make up for it by skipping lunch. I drink too much coffee in the pre-ovulatory phase, and none at all in the luteal phase, just in case. I tell myself over and over again to go and get salad for lunch, and find myself walking past the salad bar to go to the coffee-shop for something, anything involving bread and caffeine. I keep forgetting to take healthy snacks to work with me, and end up eating biscuits a colleague brought in (I hate biscuits. I really do really hate most biscuits. So this really is disordered eating) and more coffee.

And a complicated braid of things are going on inside me:

For one thing, there’s the raging, raging guilt and shame that my weight is killing my babies.

There’s the appalling waste of all the work I did to learn to accept and love myself as I was, to treat myself with kindness and respect and to make my health paramount rather than my appearance or the judgements of others. All that work. All those years. All gone. I think I hate myself and my fat as intensely now as I did at sixteen, when I lived on toast, black coffee, and fingernails and cut myself to deal with the poisonous feeling of just being plain wrong and bad.

(I am not self-harming now. Do not panic. I couldn’t do that now anyway, it upsets H so, and not doing it for his sake is quite a powerful motivator).

There’s the unfairness of it. There are many, many women out there, as fat as I am, much fatter than I am, who get pregnant and carry to term. In the grand scheme of things, my weight and size are neither extreme nor dangerous. I can buy pretty clothes in most shops. People do not point at me in the street. I fit into the seats on public transport, I fit through turnstiles, I fit in public toilets whose cubicle doors actually brush the toilet-bowl on opening. When I’m not just getting over my period, I can trot up three, four, five, six flights of stairs without breaking a sweat or having to stop to catch my breath. But my fat, mine is excessive and baby-killing. This is so unfair that I do, sometimes, wonder if The Professor is lying to me about my weight. (But then I read the statistics and yes, fatter women are more likely to miscarry. But not certain to miscarry. Which is why most fat women have perfectly healthy pregnancies. They don’t all have my hormonal issues. And it’s still, burningly, evilly, unfair).

There’s the fact that I associate being thin, for me, with being in pain and ill and VERY HORRIBLY DEPRESSED. Losing weight is exhilarating and terrifying. I’m being good! I’m thinner! Everything hurts! Like the Little Mermaid, who in exchange for acceptable, desirable legs, lost her lovely tail, her beautiful voice, and every step she took on her new legs was like treading on broken glass. I am scared of being thin.

I am also scared of being thin because of the amount of attention it got me. I was hot, but this meant that instead of just the love and desire of one good person, like H, I also had to put up with/deal with/fend off the attention of nasty people. The men who whistled and cat-called. The women who hated me because their boyfriends had noticed me. The boyfriend who wouldn’t take no for an answer. The step-father who dealt with his discomfort at my ‘improved’ appearance by constantly mocking and insulting me. The fact that my family’s disapproval switched seamlessly from my weight to my untidy jew-fro, my Doc Martens, my failing to get into Oxbridge, my refusal to do Law. Being skinny won me nothing but competition, envy, and coercion. Being fat was safer, more comfortable.

(And there’s the fact that sex, when skinny and when carrying a large and painful ovarian teratoma about, is often unpleasantly painful even when you do want to do it).

Then there’s the desperate need for comfort, sedation even. I come from a family of addicts. Growing up, food was equated with love, and love was very much conditional. Wasting food, leaving it on your plate, was utterly forbidden. Getting fat was shameful. Eat everything, eat more than you want to eat. Do not get fat. If you are good, you will get sweets. If you are given sweets as a gift (Easter, Christmas, birthdays), your parents will take them off you and force you to share them with everyone else, and if you protest, eat them all themselves, as greedy little girls don’t deserve them. If you lose weight, you will be pressed to eat more. If you gain weight, you will be reviled and shamed. If you are naughty, you will be sent away from the table without eating. If you refuse to eat something, you will be forced to eat it. To this day, if I feel bad and guilty about something, I feel I need to eat something I don’t really want or like, and if I feel sad and lonely, I need to eat sugar, and if I feel happy, I need to cook something elaborate and delicious (if you come to my house and I have made you lasagne, that means I LOVE YOU).

Feeling as I do now, bad, angry, miserable, out of control, ashamed and, oh God, how I miss my babies, how I want even just one of them to have lived, I can’t eat ‘normally’. I can’t do the healthy-if-strict diet that works, I can’t starve myself, I can’t eat what the hell I want and to hell with it. I hate cooking at the moment (poor H), I really hate it. And I’m good at cooking. All that talent and love and attention, contaminated with guilt and rage. I can’t make nice things for H and me. I try to, but for months now, H has been doing most of the cooking, whereas I used to do most of it, and enjoyed it. I eat what I’m given at home, and spend lunch-times at work fighting hard with myself to chose something good and tasty and low-carb, while my head wants me to, literally, eat shit and die.

Five years ago I was doing so well. I was doing so well.

Compassion fatigue

Oh, I am tired. Grey and shaky and bleargh with exhaustion. Some of this is no doubt the slightly anaemic, intestinally disgruntled, narcotic-withdrawal left-overs of the departing period, which is, yes, departing (you are, aren’t you? Departing? Yes? Going? Safe to board my husband again? Please?). But most of it is dear old boring old same old depression. Again. And not unexpectedly.

Every time I start to feel better, more like myself, less overwhelmed by work and family and, oh, I don’t know, getting out of bed in the morning, I get pregnant again, and miscarry again, and here I am again. Angry and anxious and depressed (really quite depressed. We’ve got books containing this sort of thing at work, and I spent my tea-break working out I was anywhere from moderately to severely depressed depending on how well-written the questionnaire was).

It’s not actually depression, endogenous depression, at all, though, is it? ‘Depression’ books tend to be all about working out why and how this dreadful cloud mysteriously fell on you, blighting your life, on the understanding that once you’ve worked it out, you’ll be able to sort it out. Whereas I know exactly why I feel like hell and I’m already doing all I can about it. When shitty things happen to people, they are allowed to collapse and spend some time lying about on the carpet in pieces.

They are, but I’m not. I won’t really allow myself to lie on the carpet in pieces. Everytime I get down there, I feel terribly selfconscious and then get quickly back up again before anyone falls over me. ‘I’m fine!’ I chirp, as I sweep all my shards up in a dustpan, ‘Just fine! A bit tired! Could do with a coffee! Right-oh, let’s get on with something!’

And then I find myself dragging myself through the rest of the week like a wounded snake (ooh, she’s quoting Pope. Get her), too tired to think, too tired to read, or write, or knit, or have a civilised conversation with my husband.

I don’t know what I need or even want that’ll get me out of this Knackered Pit. It’ll go away by itself in a few months, I suppose, as it has done before, just in time to freshen up and resharpen the stakes at the bottom for my next great tumble into it (did that sound hopeless and despairing? Good, I meant it to). It’s just, I am so, well, bored of spending so much time being tired and sad and angry.

And other people are bored of me being like this too. Or, I am worried that they are. Or that they will be, if I don’t put on a brave face. Or, that, like my mother, they think I have no business being this miserable (because we all know misery is like the measles: after the first go or two, you’re immune, see?). I’m getting a pervasive feeling of ‘seriously, not this again? Aren’t you over this?’ from the whole bloody Universe, and I can’t tell if it’s just me, overflowing with neurotic paranoia, or if people really are feeling like this about me.

At work, meanwhile, the fact I am ‘ill’ so often, and come back from these ‘ill’ days still in pain and not exactly functional, and I keep going to the doctor or to hospital, is getting increasingly noticed, and people are beginning to do hinty questions – the whole ‘ooh, are you under the weather again?’ *eyebrows raised and waggling expectantly*. I just say ‘yes,’ to this. If anyone grows a pair and asks me directly what the effin’ eff is going on, I shall tell them. At length. With graphic descriptions. And I shall give them a link to a site I found (and am politely not linking here) which had pictures of surgeries being done for endometriosis and adenomyosis, and which was terrifying and grotesque and had me distinctly Not On Speaking Terms with my uterus for days.

Driven to my knees

Item – I went to the Hospital Out In The Country this morning, for my day 3 (or, ‘any day between 2 and 4!’ (which was just as well as it was day 4, but the clinic’s shut at weekends) bloodwork (estrogen, FSH, prolactin). Miss Consultant had ordered this all back in November, and I never got it done because I became pregnant that very cycle (I ovulated about a week after the consultation), and you can’t really do accurate day 3 bloodwork when you’re actually miscarrying. But hey! I’ve just had a normal, no-I’m-not-pregnant period, so we go back to Finding Things Out.

Item – This is, in FOUR YEARS of infertility treatment, the first, 1st, FIRST, day 3 FSH test I have had. The first. Primo. Only. Oh, I’ve had estrogen and FSH tested on other, completely bloody random days of the cycle, usually in the luteal phase, but never on the day it actually gives any answers as to the state of one’s ovaries. Is it me, or are my doctors incompetent drivelling moronic hacks who simply do not know how to do the most basic basicness of their basic bloody jobs? I mean, I know I have irregular cycles, which makes timing this awkward, but the HOITC has a daily walk-in phlebotomy clinic, as does my GP, so all anyone would have to do is send me away with the paperwork. Like Miss Consultant finally did in November. Reasons why no one’s done this test before? Even though I asked for it? I can’t remember. Originally, something about it all being sorted out when I did IVF (which I am not doing any more, on the NHS at least, on account of getting pregnant every third or fourth cycle, and then spoiling it all by miscarrying every single bloody time). Recently? Pfft. *Throws up hands, stalks into kitchen to bang cupboard doors about*.

Item – Anyway, the phlebotomy clinic was fine. Short wait, favourite phlebotomist (the expert, gentle one with a sense of humour who always gets a vein first go and it never hurts). The waiting room was, of course, full of pregnant women (good luck to them, I say. May they always be that grinningly pleased with life), and I now have a bruise despite the extreme gentleness of the needling, but it was fine.

Item – It being mid-January in Britain, I got drenched, soaked, half-drowned and sprayed with puddle-water (by a giant twatweasel who did it on purpose. The bird, I flipped it) on the way there, and on the way back (minus the purposeful twatweasel). And then I realised I had no pain-killers on me and the damp in the crotch of my jeans could, yes, be rainwater creeping up my legs, but could also be something worse oozing downwards instead. I rushed home.

Item – It was something worse. And I was so crampy I kept, helplessly, cursing out loud as each stab got me. The nauseating, dizzying cramps of days one, two and three of the cycle are worse, I think, because they are nauseating and dizzying, but these sharp knifing ones are pretty much as painful even if they are less all-encompassing-and-destroying. So I called work again and said, look, I’m really sorry, but (ahhh, shit) I can’t come in today after all (ow), but I’ll see you tomorrow (fffff… damn it). And then I took more painkillers and crawled about on the kitchen floor for a bit, trying to make myself a cup of tea and put the laundry on, yelping at intervals. Reading this back, I’m half horrified at myself, half overwhelmed with pity. But I feel a lot better now, and I seem (fingers crossed) to have stopped bleeding quite so extravagantly.

Item – H had a bad sad last night. When we’d clambered into bed, he told me he was sad about the most recent loss, and he wished we had a two-year-old too. We cuddled each other for a long while, and I kissed the tears from his eyes (which made me feel like crying too). Poor dear man, poor sweet good man. It makes me so sad. He’d be the best daddy ever, he really would. He already uncomplainingly cleans up vomit and does back-rubs without being asked. And if he feels this protective and nurturing towards me, just imagine how devoted he’d be to a tiny child. At least, you imagine it. I can’t without crying.

Item – H was still gloomy when he got back from work. I asked if he was feeling OK, and he sighed and said he has a ‘bad sad hangover’ from last night. ‘You could always blog about it,’ I said. ‘I’m much better now!’ he chirped eagerly, and sprinted away to put the kettle on. *I Raise my eyebrows*

Item – I had an interesting new variation on the usual dead baby dreams. I actually had my new-born baby in my arms, but we were being chased by Bad Guys™, and I had to do things like jump out of windows and climb down drain-pipes, knowing all the while that the slightest slip, hesitation, or fumble would mean I dropped the baby, or let the Bad Guys™ get her. I managed to wake myself up several times, so anxious I was starting to hyperventilate, but always fell back to dreaming about the same, desperate running, the leap from roof-top to roof-top I just couldn’t make, the knowledge that this was somehow all my fault.

O’er-fraught heart

Dear Readers, thank you for your commiserations in my last post. I’m feeling almost human right now. I woke up today in a great deal of pain, and threw up my pain-killers midmorning, and then had a horrible few hours where I was too nauseous to take more, and hurting like the proverbial (what is it, by the way, with the cramps running down my thighs? They are excruciating. What the hell have my thighs got to do with my uterus? Gah). Luckily, mid-afternoon I managed to keep some co-codamol down. From then on in I felt well enough to have a little chicken soup, and then I could take the mefenamic acid. And now I am properly medicated and feel bruised, tender and crampy rather than torn-to-shreds with mind-meltingly painful spasms in the back and legs. I also feel very tired and more than a little stoned. Both drugs have side-effects of drowsiness, light-headedness and confusion. Oof. I don’t know how anyone could do anything stronger just for fun. I like being able to cohere, me.

And now I am sitting up in bed, drinking bitter lemon, hot-water-bottles clamped fore-and-aft (H bought me a second one this very afternoon, after I wailed that I could only hold the cramp-relieving heat to my lower back OR my thighs and they both huuuuuuuurt. He also bought the bitter lemon and made the chicken soup and washed out the plastic bowl after I was sick in it. I think I shall buy him a pony).

I spent an idiotically long time wondering why this period wasn’t quite so horrible as the last, you know. It was quite a surprise to me when Bitter McTwisted stopped flushing the Positive Thinking Fairy’s head down the loo long enough to remind me that last time I had been, you know, miscarrying, dumbass. I told you this stuff made me stoned.

And because I am feeling well enough to think right now, I also remembered that tomorrow would have been the best candidate for Pikaia’s birthday, as it was her due-date in 2009, and if the Universe hadn’t been a giant bucket of shit for the past three years, I’d have a two-year-old. And if I’d had said two-year-old, I don’t know which of my subsequent pregnancies would’ve happened, but it’s likely I’d also have a teeny wee baby, or be pregnant right now. Something like that.

And two-year-olds are so cute and so challenging, so small and vulnerable and darling, and so determined and frustrated and frustrating, and we wouldn’t be living in this flat, and I wouldn’t be worrying about my job, and right now I feel so unimagineably distant from the May that got to be a Mummy. She’s probably making fairy-cakes for tomorrow and bickering with H about the hoovering. She never miscarried, so she probably never really thinks about how easily, how very easily, she could still be stuck in a little flat for DINKYs, in a full-time job that despite its many excellences is just not what she wants to do with her life, buying mugs in pairs rather than half-dozens, buying bitter lemon and birds-eye chillis rather than ribena and fish-fingers.

‘All my pretty ones? Did you say all?—O hell-kite!—All? What, all my pretty chickens, at one fell swoop?’ (Macbeth. Act IV scene iii).


On the plus side, my period started this morning, which gives me a luteal phase of twelve days. This is an improvement over the last few non-pregnant cycles (eleven-day luteal phases), so.

On the minus side, my period started this morning. I feel awful. I know tomorrow and Sunday will be even worse. Oh, damn it all, damn it all.

On the plus side, I can go get my day-anywhere-between-2-and-4 bloodwork done on Monday morning, and by then I shall, hopefully, feel rather better.

On the minus side, I shall be late for work Monday morning. My bosses are angelic, angelic I tell you, about my regularly missing two or three days a month because of my stupid bastard period, so I feel bad about missing any more than I absolutely have to. (It’s this conscientious side to my nature. It will insist on recrudescing. Comes of spending my adolescence among Protestants).

And I am aware I am a shite commentator/blog-reader at the moment. Sorry.