On Tuesday we, H and I, went back to see Miss Consultant for my post-surgery now-what appointment.
I’d’ve written about it sooner, but my period turned up a day early and proceeded to trample me into the dust of the carpets (literally (as in, yes, really. Also, we should hoover more often)). I don’t know if it was a spectacularly bad one anyway, or because it turned up early I didn’t transition from mefenamic acid to diclofenac quickly enough (I normally take mefenamic acid the day before I start, and then switch to the diclofenac when I bleed, but it was early, so I was taking only the mefenamic acid when the bleeding ramped up, and ohhh, God Almighty), but I ended up lying face down on the floor, unable to stand up because the muscles in my left thigh had gone absolutely rigid with cramp, groaning, sobbing, speechless, and vomiting. H in the end tucked hot-water-bottles round me and a blanket over me and sat on the floor next to me for a while, stroking my back. Eventually the drugs kicked in and I went to bed. I didn’t sleep much. The pain had abated to not-vomiting, but it was still bad enough to keep me awake, counting the hours until I could take another dose of diclofenac and more tramadol.
Today I feel a lot better. I even ate half a mug of chicken soup with rice, and drank several cups of tea, and I haven’t been sick again. I feel like I’ve been beaten with baseball bats and I am so tired I keep dozing off, but so much better.
So that put rather a crimp in everything.
(I am very annoyed it hurt so much. I am also very annoyed I can’t really tell if it actually was Really Bad, or because I screwed up the medication plan which Must Not Be Screwed Up. Honestly, I’ve learnt that the hard way before. *Head-desk*. Whereas if it was Really Bad, then what the hell have I been ignoring wheat for for over two months? Gah).
Anyhoodle. Miss Consultant’s post-surgical what-next consultation. For which I was not late, despite the best efforts of public transport. Huzzah!
First, Miss Consultant was pleased I’d lost a little more weight since she’d last seen me. I didn’t tell her it’d’ve been more but for the January ricepotatosugar-athon. I just smiled demurely.
We then admired my insides – well, Miss Consultant and I admired my insides. I think H was admiring the ceiling tiles. We went over the details again – normal healthy-looking ovary with no cysts (that’s what regular(ish) cycles will do for a gonad), nice clear fallopian tube, inside of uterus very good with no polyps or damaged areas of lining or fibroid intrusions. On the other hand, said uterus is ‘globular’ and was too big and in-the-way for Miss Consultant to get her instruments in under it, and there was a leetle patch of endometriosis or two in there. You’ll be relieved-and-bewildered (I know I was) to hear the patch is really quite tiny. The nasty squashed strawberry photo I saw right after surgery was an extreme close-up. So Miss Consultant was of the opinion it wasn’t interfering with anything at all, and that the significant cause of my extremely painful periods was actually Cute Ute and her giant bloater adenomyosis problem. Or, possibly, the small patch of endometriosis has found a main nerve to colonise, given the FORTHELOVEOFGODKILLME level of pain a trapped fart can cause at the wrong time of the month.
We then discussed the fact I haven’t been pregnant for an entire year despite regular cycles and regular sex (I may have only hinted at the regular sex. H was sitting right next to me). And, well, how did we feel about IVF?
We feel we are fresh out of other options, to be honest.
So we discussed what we needed to do to get back on that bandwagon. Miss Consultant’s clinic can’t do IVF for me, because of my geographical location, so she will have to refer me to another clinic absolutely fucking miles away. I was referred to them before, years ago, before I started getting pregnant all by myself and the NHS took IVF back off the table, and was ‘discharged’ for being too fat. So Miss Consultant worked out exactly how many more pounds I had to lose to suit their criteria, and as soon as I’ve lost them, she’ll refer me. She also decided to check my oestrogen/FSH balance, and see if my ovary is still in reasonable nick.
My last oestrogen/FSH day three blood test was taken a year ago. It was perfectly fine. My oestrogen was not too high and my FSH was 5… somethings, which is very well behaved of it. The women in my family tend not to go into menopause until their mid-to-late fifties, and several had spontaneous babies in their mid-forties. So hopefully, it will still be reasonable now. Hopefully? I’m hoping now? What is this, optimism? I must be high. If it stops bloody snowing, I shall go to the clinic tomorrow and get the test done right away.
(Yep, it’s snowing again. We’re actually having a winter! Imagine!)
H and I discussed it on the way home. Do we do this via the NHS? Do we see if we can get referred to Miss Consultant’s clinic rather than this stupid effin’ miles away clinic? How long is the waiting list these days? Do we at least look at going private? Is OHSS really a big worry (H is terrified of it)? Do we really want to do this? Do we really want to reach our forties and think ‘well, we didn’t try everything…’.
Miss Consultant was very sweet as we were leaving. She mentioned we’d known each other a long time now, and she’d like us to stay in touch whatever we choose to do. Made my leathery pinched heart swell.
Right. Diet and exercise. Just as soon as I can stand up without trembling.