This morning, I got as far as the Main Station, the half-way point of my commute, before I felt the ominous trickle of blood escaping from one’s sanitary protection. I made it to the toilets (30p! They charge you 30p now! In exact money! I did not have 30p. The change machine is on the floor above. The jobsworth at the entrance gate looked at my proferred 50p as if I was trying to hand her a perfectly formed dog-turd, so had to I run upstairs, get change, and run down again, all with that trickling sensation distracting me mightily. Goddamnit) just before my jeans got soaked. Less than 45 minutes to drown a super-plus-extra tampon. And as I was sitting in the grubby little cubicle with inadequate door-lock (30-fucking-p!), I felt a sudden, sweaty wave of nausea, and managed to get off the pan, turn 180 degrees and crouch just in time.
Throwing up in a busy public lavatory, with my jeans round my ankles and my sodden knickers round my knees, bare bottom pointed at the barely-locked door, comes under the heading of ‘Low Point’.
(As for the knickers, I gave up on trying to mop them wearable and binned them. I had a spare pair. I am sensible).
When I wobbled back onto the concourse, I then nearly blacked out. I sat down heavily next to a woman eating fruit salad with a tooth-pick and put my head between my knees for a few minutes. And had a little weep while I was down there. Fruit-salad woman could care less*.
So I went home. H met me at our local station and carried my bag for me, carefully not touching me when he realised the friendly arm he’d put round me just made me shudder with poorly controlled nausea (I can’t be touched when I feel sick. I just can’t. I swear, I use every nerve to Not Feel Sick. I can’t spare any to register kindly interest). Then he made me peppermint tea while I locked myself in the bathroom for a while and my lower digestive tract had a go at expressing its frustration and sorrow. Came out of bathroom, went back in. Came out again and lay down, got up and went back to the bathroom. And so on.
H, who is kind, called my job to tell them I had been trying to get to work, but ‘fell ill’ on the way, which is nicer than ‘and every bodily fluid you can think of was absolutely involved’. He then called his own job to tell them his bloody wife had burst into bloody flames again (or something) and then worked from home while making me tea at regular intervals and occasionally looking at me in a worried sort of way.
So, any Gentle Readers who made it this far into this horrible post, any ideas? Allergic to Main Station (I have a distressing tendency to either puke there or start a migraine there)? My body suddenly deciding that it can’t be having with volterol mixed with tramadol (not that I’d taken either on Tuesday. I had geared down to ibuprofen and paracetamol)? The fibroids/adenomyosis/possible endometriosis monster chewing a hole in something? The lower-bowel misery is strongly indicative of endometriosis, I am told by PubMed. This upsets me. I know when I had a lap 4 years ago they didn’t find endo, but they did find a great many ‘adhesions’, and removed some of them (apparantly they left some ‘minor’ ones on the right-hand side). I had assumed – they had assumed – that the adhesions were from the emergency surgery I had at 18 to remove my left ovary, fallopian tube, and gigantic ruptured ovarian cyst/teratoma/evil piranha. But then why would there be any on the right side?
I am going to have to tell Miss Consultant, very very firmly, that I need a second opinion. And almost certainly another laparoscopy and hysteroscopy. Because this is ridiculous.
*Point of order – ‘I could care less’ is the older, more subtle, more sarcastic idiom. ‘I couldn’t care less’ is the user friendly version for people who think ‘ironic’ means that fucking Alanis Morissette song (hint – none of the situations in the song are actually ironic. They are variations on ‘tiresome’, ‘annoying’, ‘very distressing’, and ‘pointless’). People keep trying to ‘correct’ my usage, which really is ironic.