Monthly Archives: November 2011

Circles the post at the end of her tether

Item – I seem to have segued, seamlessly, from post-surgical bleeding to menstrual bleeding. I am going to be so anaemic when this is over, y’all.

Item – OW. Cramps. OW. OW.

Item – I had a proper shower this morning and changed my dressings. I seem to have two-and-a-half incisions. One in the belly-button, yes, which I was expecting (oh my God the bruising), one on the left side a couple of inches above my hip-bone (mildly surprised – why to the side? Why not central? Was this part of the failed attempt to get under the Cute Ute and excavate?) and then, an inch below the belly-button, a kind of scar which could just be a scratch, or it could be glued rather than stitched. The hell? What? What?

Item – And having a shower wore me the fuck out. I was bruised but fine, and now I am exhausted, crampy, nauseous and dizzy. I’m sure it’s really because my period started this afternoon, but I feel vaguely punished for trying to be a sweet-scented presentable (bruised, bloated, bad-tempered (but I smell of gardenias. That counts, right?)) person.

Item – H has a bad, and seriously disgusting, cold. I have just had surgery and I am getting my period and I think this cold is bad and he has a right to bitch. Therefore, the poor bastard Officially Feels Grim. We are such jolly good company for each other right now.

Item – As soon as I had the attention-span I fired up my google-fu and had an explore of non-surgical, non-conception-preventing treatments for endometriosis (hey, guys! I OFFICIALLY have endometriosis now! W00t!). I promptly fell into An Infinte Ocean of Woo. Infinite. Woo. Crystals. Herbs. Massage. Laying-on-of-Hands. Prayer-Circles. Oh, the hell.

Item – The only promising thing, in that it came up over and over again in less-than-bloody-woo terms, was a link between endometriosis and gluten intolerance. Gentle Readers, I am seriously going to give up wheat and gluten for a few months. I am. Yes, me, the Pasta Maniac. I am at my wits’ end here.

Item – Must go and do some suffering now. Is necessary, apparently.


I aten’t dead

In fact, I’m at home tucked up in bed with a hot-water-bottle and a cup of tea while my Mum makes chicken soup (from scratch. Occasionally she wanders in to ask me where the filleting knife is or do we have celery? (answers: Knife block, oddly enough, and Vegetable drawer in fridge, for some strange reason. (I’m allowed to be sarcastic, I am perforated (and I always run to nested parentheses when under the weather, have you noticed?)))).

Good news and bad news.

Good: Tube clear, ‘patent’, they call it; uterine lining healthy and uterine cavity undistorted; Satsuma a blemish-free little rock-star of an ovary.

Bad: ‘Significant’ adenomyosis; patch of endometriosis in the Pouch of Douglas; said patch un-laserable because sodding uterus is so bulky they couldn’t move it out of the way. Luckily it is well away from Sats and her nice clean tube.

I bled rather a lot, so am very pale, but feel surprisingly chirpy and not in much pain.

So. Well. Hmmph. There you go.

Indigestible mixture of kvell and kvetch.

Item – I’m so tired. Sorry. I am really, really tired, and I’m not even drugged up to the eyeballs and poked full of holes yet.

Item – H had a Great Big Amazing Wonderful Thing to do, so amazing and wonderful some of his family came up to watch, so there was much socialising and seeing of peeps over the weekend. Which was lovely. And then on Monday H did his Great Big Amazing Wonderful Thing (he’s so talented) and we all died of pride and then went to the pub. I got four hours sleep last night. I am so pleased for H I think I may grin myself into a spasm. I cornered a random colleague at work and God help me I boasted. And I am so tired I can barely type. Hurrah for H! wbifaq4 bv4auiniurhguvx [faceplant in keyboard].

Item – We scrubbed the damn flat top to bottom as well. I still have a floor to mop. Did I mention my mother was planning on staying the night once she and H have scooped me up from the hospital?

Item – Reasons why H is pleased my mother is staying:

  1. We don’t have a car. My mother does. Cars are useful for transporting The Recently Quarried home again.
  2. H is also exhausted, post Amazing Wonderful, and came home early today with a fever (oh, the timing), so if he’s going to be feeling like a boiled turnip, another Useful Adult about the place would be Of Use.
  3. Also, if I decide to go all Medical Emergency (fingers crossed, eh?) there will be a spare Useful Adult With Car available.
  4. If nothing else, my mother and H can play Boggle all evening while I languish.

Item – Reasons why I feel twitchy about my mother staying:

  1. I have to mop the bathroom floor. I know I should anyway, as it’s not a great surface for lying on in emergencies right now, unless one cares to be covered in lint and hair-balls, but I am mostly mopping it because my mother will look at it.
  2. The dirty laundry in the bedroom does not live in a hamper. We do not own a hamper large enough. It lives in a Matterhorn. And my mother will look at it, and there’s eff-all I can do about this, because I don’t have time now to do ALL the laundry AND mop the bathroom floor, and I’m more likely to lie on the floor than in the laundry.
  3. When I am feeling grim, I don’t want anyone to talk to me or even look at me much. I want people to rub my feet in total, reverential silence. My mother, bless her, talks, and doesn’t do feet.
  4. She will offer to clean the bathroom or do laundry or something, and I will have a nervous breakdown.

Item – I’m taking H out for dinner tomorrow, as a birthday treat. So I may well not have time to update you, Gentle Readers, before I go to hospital. Umm. Will you fret? If you think you might fret, I can emotionally blackmail H into updating you. If my mother lets him. My mother doesn’t know about this blog and I don’t want her to. Oy. Anyway. Or H can lend me his iPhone and I can say ‘im fine ‘Kthnxbai’.

Item – It’s H’s birthday tomorrow! Happy birthday, H! Have a punctured semi-conscious wife!

Item – And then there’s work. Work is being A Total Bastard. People keep putting tasks in my in-tray. I thought I’d told these People that I’m off for a week. Well, I’d told my boss, and a couple of other key colleagues, and they’ve dealt with it by adopting Extreme Stealth mode, so no one else knows and I am having about three Conversations of Awkward a day. And I am, apparently, officially covering for two other sick colleagues. Yes. I know. I, woman going into surgery, a thing I informed work about in AUGUST, have been asked to cover for two colleagues who fell sick last week. Because I’ve been at current place of employment long enough to know how to do their jobs as well as my own, you see, despite not actually being trained. The person who asked me to cover had the nerve to look surprised when I said I wasn’t available, and asked me if I couldn’t have the surgery next week instead. Um, honey, that’s not how the NHS works.

Item – Anyway, H is a God Amongst Men and I’m so very clever because I married him and get to bask in reflected glory.

Satsuma the queen of guilt

I’m sure this has happened to you too. You’re just about to do that thing you said you’d do, whether it’s the washing-up, painting the spare room, or compiling that report-thingy for your boss. Or, you’ve made a start on it even, and have just nipped to the loo and made a cup of tea to power you onwards. And your spouse/mother/boss comes in at right that very moment and, however nicely, has a wee go at you for fannying about with a kettle and not having done it yet.

Bloody infuriating, isn’t it?

Well, Satsuma did ovulate three days ago. Just when I was last nagging her via internet.

No wonder she flips me the bird on a regular basis, poor gonad. The scorn and suspicion I lavish on her, and all the while she’s planning to time things as conveniently as possible. Eheu.

Stuck on pause, methinks

[very quiet, muffled hammering, as if on well-padded door in distance]

Satsuma? SATSUMA! Are you in there? Sats?

Well, are you going to do anything?

I mean, are you going to ovulate, then? What the hell else did you think I meant? You’re an ovary. I’m not exactly expecting you to cook a roast dinner for six, am I?

Of course I’m being sarcastic. It’s day 26. You can stop being ‘helpful’ now, you know. In fact, if you don’t ovulate soon, you’ll be helping Cute Ute screw H’s birthday up even further by making it difficult for me to go to the theatre with him. You know? Those shows I already have tickets for? For when I was recovering enough to go out for an evening?

Yes, I know this is what you get for being clever, thank you. I’ve been clever all my life. So now I do something clever just so you and Cute Ute can sneak around the back and batter me with extreme prejudice while my stitches are still healing?

God. Bloody gonad.

You do know my mother wants to come and stay while I’m recuperating?

Yes, I know. That’s what I thought.

And that.

Yes, I will be scrubbing the bathroom.

If what’s stopping you initiating a luteal phase is a Giant Sense of Awkward about throwing up in front of my mother (yes, I know she’s your mother too), then I strongly advise you get over it. I know we’re all scarred by the time I puked on the radiator when I was six when she was already coping with the Fountain of Vomit that was my little sister in the bath. But we’re a grown-up, and we’re much better at aiming for plastic basins now, and she showed me the weeping blisters her elastoplast dressings left when she had surgery, and we do deserve vengeance.

And there’s always the whip.

Talk to the navel

[Scene: the May household bedroom, late one Sunday afternoon in November. MAY has spent the day in pyjamas (ie an old Harry Potter promotion teeshirt from the launch of Book IV, and thick woolly socks), and is now lolling on the bed, drinking tea out of a large mug adorned with the legend ‘Fuck Off, I’m Knitting’. She has indeed been knitting, and the cuff of a sock is on the needles beside her, resting on top of a laptop. Looking thoughtful, she turns to SATSUMA, her ovary, whose appearance (thank fuck) need not concern us, given that she is safely tucked away inside May’s abdomen].

MAY: Well, Satsuma, me old china, it’s day… wait… [she pushes the knitting aside and opens her laptop, types, and stares thoughtfully at the screen] Day twenty-four of this cycle, and you don’t appear to have ovulated yet at all.

[Long pause]

MAY: I am assuming you are doing this to be helpful, and, in fact you have been helpful, dear gonad, because now I won’t have to go through the near-traumatic hassle of re-scheduling surgery. So, err, yay?

[Short pause]

MAY: But you are going to ovulate at some point soon, right? Or eventually?

[Pausey sort of pause]

MAY: Though it does occur to me that if you could just leave it another week or so, that’d be excellent, because getting my period while recovering from the surgery would not necessarily be good either. I mean, puking with fresh abdominal incisions? I do not thrill at the prospect.

[Tea-drinking sort of pause]

MAY: Intellectually, I know that you, beloved battered and valiant Satsuma, are merely an interesting cross between a gonad and an endocrine gland, and therefore can do nothing whatsoever ‘on purpose’, and that ovulation has been most likely delayed by an unholy mixture of stress, weight-loss, and insomnia. It’s just nicely ironic that stressing about ovulating ‘on time’ and wishing that for once I’d do it late, has in fact delayed my period in a useful manner.

[Fretful pause]

MAY: Though the hormonal bender you’ve put me on this past week was, I think, unnecessary. Though you’ll no doubt blame that on stress and insomnia as well.

[Not much of a pause at all]

MAY: You are going to ovulate again at some point, right? Because last time you went this AWOL, it was just when I lost several pounds rather quickly, and I think you had some kind of cyst, and it was a year ago, and the two probably weren’t related, but I’ve just nearly 5 pounds rather quickly again, and what the fuck is up with you?. And yes, I do know black coffee and half a biscuit for lunch is an emotionally crippled way of losing weight, and I think you’re being unfair, because there were quite a few tuna salad lunches and Japanese soup lunches in there as well, which probably had no more calories than half a biscuit, but did have a lot more vitamins. So. Anyway, to make you feel happier, I am going to have cheesecake for pudding tonight. OK? OK.

[Tense pause]

MAY: And, Satsuma, you know H and I have been either a) avoiding sex, or b) using condoms, just in case, this cycle, as instructed by the Day Surgery Unit in their myriad leaflets? I shall be quite peeved if you’ve been making me do both of the above for no reason, because you have no plans to ovulate this year at all. I concede that using condoms doesn’t piss me off nearly as much as avoiding sex, but I do dislike both QUITE A LOT. Especially as the current batch of condoms squeak. There’s a time and a place for squeaky novelty rubber toys, but I’m not that sort of girl.

[Irritable pause]

MAY: And as for that row H and I had a few days ago, was that anything to do with you and your hormonal vagaries? Because, Satsuma, we both cried. And while my inner psychologist thinks this may be actually a good thing, as we were getting rather distant and weird and head-up-our-own-arse, what with various work-related tensions and the surgery going LOOOOOOOM and the lack of sex (sorry, that one’s me. I’m like a horny tom-cat with the sulks at certain times of the month, and H finds stress just makes him want an innocent cuddle and a glass of wine. Gender stereotyping can go fuck itself), it was painful to go through and didn’t help with the week-long Impending Migraine That Didn’t Ever Turn Up thing. Which, you can tell me, was also you, wasn’t it? The whole week was like Waiting for Godot with added ibuprofen lysine and nudity.

[Finishing the tea pause]

MAY: I’m glad we’ve had this little chat. So, now, Satsuma, in your own time… Satsuma? Are you listening? Sats?

[Distant, tiny rustle, as of an ovary idly turning the pages of the New York Review of Books while lifting up a tiny middle finger in lordly salute]

Doing my head in

I did not go to work today after all. I woke up with a splitting headache, and on getting up, needed to lie down again with my arm over my eyes, ow the light MY EYES.

I got back up again after half an hour and some painkillers, whinged to H, and went back to bed again. No, wait, must call work and excuse myself. And drink tea. And go back to bed again.

By lunchtime I was wondering if I wasn’t having some kind of mini-migraine, as my eye-sight was blurry and I felt sick and out-of-it. It didn’t get particularly full-on, and eventually wandered off grumbling into the middle distance, where it is now squatting menacingly, kept at bay with ibuprofen and enough tea to waterlog a woolly mammoth.

I feel crappy about missing work, what with work being a bit of an understaffed nest of chaos at the moment.

I feel annoyed with work, though, because *whisper it* some of the chaos needn’t have been incubated in the first place. Ahem. And resentful of all the days I’ve made myself trek in despite pains in my lower abdomen that make me want to cry and bite someone’s leg, because of said understaffing, and come away feeling that I really really need a teeshirt saying ‘look, I feel like shit but I’m here anyway. What’s your excuse?’

(I have lower abdominal pain, some, or slight, or savage, most days from the day before my period is due to a couple of days after I’ve ovulated. Every single month. Over and over again.)

The headache was just, well, OK, fine, Universe, if you want to play it like that, I’m going the fuck back to bed.

If the surgery is a) delayed for more than a couple of weeks, or b) inconclusive and undiagnostic, I rather worry about what I shall do next. Given that I’m in this sort of state of mind now.

I need an answer. Please let there be an answer. Even if that answer is ‘for the love of God, stop trying to get pregnant and get on with your life.’