Item – I can’t count. When I wrote this post, I thought I was writing my 664th post, when actually I was writing my 665th. I am innumerate. The content notes on my dashboard page even said 664. How do you add 1 to 664 and come up with… 664? How? How?
Item – I very nearly didn’t bother with this, because, I reasoned, how much of a ‘devoted fan’ (i.e. sociopathic anal retentive) would anyone have to be to go back to the beginning of the blog, count every single post, and pop back up to tell me I’d got it wrong and the 666th post was actually my 667th? And then I realised I was that sociopathic anal retentive, because I would know the numbering was wrong, and it indeed it would bug the living crikey out of me. After all, I dedicate my working life to making sure things are in the correct order. So what I have done, is place a holder post at position 666, and I will return and fill it in correctly tomorrow when I have given everyone a chance to ask their questions, and then post 668 will merely be a ‘hi! Post 666 is ready for you now!’ reminder with link, so people with subscriptions and rss feeds don’t miss the full glory that will be my Gentle Readers’ cunning, ingenuity, wit, charm, kindness and sheer nosiness. Don’t let me down, sweethearts.
Item – Anyway – anaemia. Basically, since the end of my last, sucktastic, period, I’ve been very tired, often pale, very sleepy, and afflicted with the most bastard-son-of-a-bastard’s-bastard-bastard restless legs. Mostly in the evenings, when sitting in the armchair to watch TV or read or pootle about on the internets, and, worse, when I go to bed. Some nights I am thrashing about like a pike on a fishing gaff as my calves knot and throb. It’s like being electrocuted. Not exactly painful, but unbearably uncomfortable. And, you know, it’s a well-know symptom strongly indicative of anaemia. I didn’t care for this development at all, and neither did H.
Item – So I went to the GP, partly because I needed to renew my painkiller prescriptions, partly to whine about the throwing up, the being in pain for a couple of weeks after a period has ended, and the gastric symptoms, also, is it endometriosis now, do you think? And partly to mention the anaemia thing. I am blessed in my GPs. Look away now if yours sucks. Our GP surgery is only a few minutes walk away, you can usually get a same-day appointment, and with the exception of one locum I haven’t seen since who told me to go away and ‘try on our own’ for a year when I first came off the pill in 2005 (silly bitch. Silly me for paying her a blind bit of attention), they have all been caring, concerned, interested, and sensible. This time I got the very sweet lady GP, who first prescribed the glorious butt-pills. She decided I had better try an anti-emetic, so there’s that for next time. She agreed I did sound pretty anaemic, and gave me a form for a blood-test. And she agreed it did sound horribly like endo, but I would need to discuss this with Miss Consultant, as Miss Consultant would be who I’d be referred to anyway, as she heads the clinic in my area for things like endometriosis as well as infertility. The GP also warned me that they’d be reluctant to do surgery again, as it can encourage scar-tissue and adhesion-formation and make things worse rather than better. This made me feel quite hopeless. But she may well have a point, as after all my periods, after a brief improvement, did become much worse rather than better after the surgery Miss Consultant did four years ago. However, my main worry with endo is that it might be interfering with Satsuma or the One-and-Only Fallopian Tube. Perhaps I shall have to demand an ultrasound and yet another HSG first. Perhaps I should just get the bloody Mirena coil put in and be done with it. Arse. Fuck. Shit. Bugger.
Item – Luckily the phlebotomy clinic was still going when I left the GP’s consulting room, so I could join the queue and get my blood taken that same morning. As I sat waiting, I noticed that all the women leaving the nurses’ room were… a tad pink and giggly, perhaps? How odd. And then my number was called, and I was ushered into the presence of… Oh. My. God. One of the cutest young men I had seen in years. (And so young. I have never felt so leathery in my life). And not only was he adorable to the eye, he was charming as well. And yes, I just grinned inanely at him, and failed to say anything witty at all, and barely noticed him sticking the needle in, and grinned inanely at him again while he labled my phials (complete blood count, serum iron levels), and then wandered back through the waiting room, you’ve got it, grinning inanely and no doubt pink-cheeked and bright-eyed.
Item – Because, good Lord, that phlebotomy nurse was cute. Whoa.
Item – H and I have since taken a few days off work, given that we’ve both got leave to use up before the end of the summer. We stayed at home, but we’ve eaten out every night, gone to the cinema, gone to museums, spent one day Totally In Pyjamas, done some shopping, had lie-ins and cakes, had fancy brunches. It’s been lovely. And we discovered a rather jolly new restaurant just down the road, where the staff are even more delightful than the food. Best of all, we’ve had time to have long, involved, intelligent conversations that were, crucially, not about savings, fertility treatment, ovulation, Dead Babies, or impending unemployment.
Item – Speaking of which, H has an interview next week. Yay for H!