Item – Your comments on my last post made me cry. I love you guys.
Item – H is currently watching Snooker while playing Snooker on his iPad. He’s very nearly a sentient being, you know.
Item – My mother called today, to tell me about some horrid discomfort and worrying symptoms she’d been having in her ladyparts, because, it seems, I am now the family expert on disorders of the uterus. I told her it sounded exactly like a burst ovarian cyst. She said her doctor had said it was a fibroid. I said, not unless the fibroid was pedunculated and had twisted, and even then, no, because the pain came to climax and then resolved, and a twisted fibroid=emergency surgery. She said, well, she was having an ultrasound next week, and I said good (because this sort of thing in a menopausal lady is NOT ON) and then I bit all my nails off (did I mention this sort of thing is NOT ON?). And I realised my mother had a point, and I am the family expert on all things uterine. Also, my mother treats me like Dr Google.
Item – Do adult daughters normally have this kind of discussion with their mothers? My own relationship with mine has been so weirdly mined with spells of incommunicado and dissembling on all health issues, that having her ask me for advice makes me feel like I’m being asked to perform on television for a £500 prize.
Item – Torn between guilt at being underwhelmed with sympathy and horribly matter-of-fact at my poor mum about these things (because I am the Crowned Queen of Uterine Fucked-Upness round here, and so far she hasn’t even challenged me to a ducal coronet), and worry because my mum is menopausal, and though ovarian cyst and fibroids can pop up at any age, they shouldn’t.
Item – So I am going to see Mum on Monday. H isn’t. Snooker final. See above.
Item – Hmph.