On the one hand, Secret Squirrelling is still stressful, ugly, boring and is making me loathe the entire human race with intense and heartfelt loathings. On the other hand, I don’t have to leave home in the mornings until after 9am, so I get to leave in a state of mind I like to think of as ‘human’ instead of the more usual, pre 8:30 state of ‘semi-feral slime-mould’.
I am also getting home earlier in the evening, so I have more time to wash up, do laundry, and generally act like a competent house-keeper rather than, did I mention?, a semi-feral slime-mould. However, every day so far this week I’ve been creeping home with a headache like a brick thrown through my right eyebrow from the inside. This has very much limited my housekeepering activities.
Speaking of which, yesterday was Pancake Day (or Shrove Tuesday, but what with this household being utterly Godless, we dedicate the day solely to ingesting pan-fried batter in the name of Tradition, so to us it is Pancake Day). I went to the supermarket on my way home (throb throb ow my head) and bought milk, eggs, flour, as did every other woman between the ages of 27 and 55 in Britain, why, yes, all in the same supermarket (and why, pray, did they need to smash at least one egg in every box of eggs they weren’t prepared to purchase? Hunting for survivors among the sticky wreckage took me a good ten minutes. OOH! METAPHOR FOR MY LIFE). I made the batter when I got home, whereapon H and I decided to take advantage of the pause while the batter rests and thinks noble thoughts about smooth even texture and cute little air-bubbles. And everything was going splendidly until the finishing straight, whereapon the mere headache I had had all afternoon suddenly and without warning became the skull-crusher scalp-on-fire jaw spasm of a migraine. Also, the mellow bedroom light suddenly became an actinic retina-crisper.
Note the ‘without warning’. Normally I get anywhere between 20 minutes and an hour of really quite pyrotechnically entertaining aura before my head implodes. Sometimes I get the aura and not the migraine. The migraine without the aura? Uh, no.
Also, exceedingly weirdly (but hell yes I’m grateful), the frightful head-pain went away very quickly on the swallowing of two ibuprofen liquid extra-fast absorption capsules, leaving me feeling like my noggin had merely been scooped out with a melon-baller. Normally, in my real life, if I wait until Thor the Mighty has already split my skull open with his Thunder Hammer to take pain-killers, tough titties, I get to keep the headache for hours and hours, and it laughs in the face of mere puny NSAIDS all the while.
So H made the pancakes (very well, I might add), while I sat about holding my temples in a delicate manner and wondering if I was hot pink or pea green in the face.
Today, my head attempted the same sudden implosion trick with not much warning, at work the cheeky bastard*, again cheered up a lot when I took pills, and again left me with the same hollow feeling of incapacity and bleargh for the rest of the afternoon.
Dear internets, what the fuck?
I mean, yes, I do usually get a migraine in the two or three days leading up to ovulation, but by migraine, I mean migraine. Classic, sparkly, half-blind, hallucinating, drooling, slurring migraine. None of this sudden clobber-and-run, wimp-out-in-the-face-of-ibuprofen nonsense. (I haven’t officially ovulated yet. I may have done yesterday evening. Satsuma has wailed and gnashed her teeth, but didn’t actually set herself on fire, so I can’t be sure based on her performance alone).
H thinks it’s dehydration, as Secret Squirrelling is involving a great deal of sitting about in baking hot rooms for hours and hours with no bedamned water-jug. H may be right, especially as the basic or primary headache tends to be a bit of an all-dayer. Tell you what, I’ll just go drink a pint of tap-water and get back to you, shall I?
Anyhow. While we wait for my kidneys to float off, what else can I tell you?
H and I are having an on-again-off-again romance at the moment. We are both trudging through a tired, stressful, unhappy, grim phase, and I am horribly conscious that this is, well, not my fault exactly, but, eh, wouldn’t be the case if my innards were less utterly borked, so I feel guilty and fretful, and H feels guilty for being aware that my health issues are stressing him out.
And we both want a baby very much. And we haven’t got one. After five-and-a-half years of trying for one. That sucks too.
H, bless him, when stressed, reverts to a strange, uncommunicative way of being. If I bring up a subject that discomfits him (anything from full on Dead Babies through sex, lack of, to what to watch on TV after dinner), he will not only not answer, but will actually get up and wander off while I’m mid-sentence. You must understand, he doesn’t storm off, or run away, or flounce out. He just seems to be unable to hear me, and getting bored of the Charlie Brown’s Teacher mwhaaah whah whah noise coming from nowhere in particular, decides he may as well check his email.
I don’t react well to this at all. I think I may have called H nasty names. But because this is my blog, haha, I can draw a veil over my own poor behaviour and we can all point at H. Hi, H!
It does occur to me, yes, based on years of carefully documented experience right here in this wee bloglet, that I have a fuse shorter than a wet cowpat when I’m close to ovulating. My mental synapses clearly do not function well on LH, FSH and oestrogen in combo. So shall we all cross fingers and hope I ovulated etc., with well-timed *cough* (you know, the headache’s supposed to prevent sex? Merely spoiling it is NOT FAIR. Must try harder). Otherwise, I’ve been crushed-head shouty-pants for nothing. NOTHING. God damn it.
Waiting to see if I have, or have not, or will, or will not ovulate, is infuriating. For H as well as me, I must remember that. Hmph.
*[It has just taken me five minutes to work out how to spell ‘bastard’. Something is terribly wrong. Send gin].