H is for Hopelessness


img_1059Fuck today. Fuck this week. Fuck last weekend which I spent hobbling around not seeing my friends or enjoying anything and fuck this stupid disease. Fuck the Government for milking the life out of the NHS too and if you don’t agree with me, well, you can guess where that is going.

It’s not been a good couple of weeks. I trundled along to my 3 month Cerazette review mildly concerned at the 4 kilos I’ve put on since starting it and the startling lack of energy I’ve had since before Christmas. Apparently, this is to be expected, and I should try to not put any more weight on. But the Doc was happy enough because I wasn’t having periods and my blood pressure was fine, so take the ‘scrip and come back in six months. Should this have made me happy? It didn’t, it just made me feel I was back to no-one giving a shit about the inherent breakdown of my insides when they can just fuck me off with some more hormones and get on with fixing the sexier diseases.
Putting on weight? Try not to. I’ve been overweight and suffering for it my entire life, and it’s not because I’m not trying not to be!
Exhausted? That’s to be expected. Expected why? Because artificial hormones aren’t actually very good for you but you’re giving them to me anyway?
Headaches? No one cares, watch out for blood clots though!

I left with a renewed prescription and an equally renewed sense of dread that this is my life now. Fat and knackered and thromboses vigilance is my life now. Daily paracetamol popping is my life now. Being too tired to function past half six every night is my life now.
It could be worse, right? Running is boring anyway and I still have gin. I will find a way and I will get through this. I have to get through this, because this is my life now.

And then, just as I was adjusting to being miserable about it all, I woke up with a headache. Not a fuggy, sore head-headache. A drilling, concentrated pain that gave me dreams about being shot in the head. I got up, I took some paracetamol. I thought it was a combination of low hydration and binge watching The Punisher before bed.
It was none of these things. In short, it was my POP therapy crapping out.
A couple of days after that headache I lost the ability to poop and needed to pee roughly twice every eight seconds. I wondered if it was a water infection.
It was my uterus filling up and pressing on everything, because my POP therapy was crapping out.
I woke up last Saturday morning barely able to move due to the screaming pain in my lower back and side. I thought it was a trapped nerve from the hard put up bed at my sister in-law’s house.
It was my POP therapy crapping out.
You can guess what came next: The Period. The slow, dragging period shortly followed by my fast, violent outrage at the whole bloody thing.

I should be careful what I wish for, hey! I’d say I’m back at square one but square one would have been over after a predictable window during which I would have popped all the codeine, stemmed all the blood loss and taken comfort in knowing it would be over in 48 hours. Not so this time, this is Square FO. It’s been a week so far, which is a long time for this broken uterus. A week of cramps and lightning bolts. A week of my trousers cutting into me around the waist as soon as I eat anything. A week on the edge of tears throughout most of the day. Another packet of cocodamol down. Only pajamas and sun dresses fit me properly and I genuinely don’t know how I’m going to make it through a theatre trip this evening without falling asleep in row B.

And do you know what? After taking additional medical advice, apparently, THIS IS TO BE EXPECTED!!!!

No periods? Don’t worry. Constant period? Don’t worry. Give it time, let the pills settle in for another six months. Watch out for blood clots and further symptoms of ovarian cysts which are also, yes you guessed it, to be expected!!!

This is absolute bullshit, and after going to some support group buddies it seems it is depressingly common. Lots of ladies have faced similar situations and been left out in the cold with a hot water bottle and a big pile of fucks that no-one cares to give.

Put up with it. Get on with it. That is the message. This isn’t going to get better. Infact, no one is going to show the slightest interest in readdressing this illness for another half a year by which point I will be that much closer to the magic number of 40 where I will be refused fertility treatment, because I will be too old. I will be refused a hysterectomy, because I will be too young and I will be refused any surgical intervention because meh, I’ll menopause soon enough. There is no light, only more tunnel, and for now this is my closing thought. I don’t have a positive spin, I don’t have any silver linings and I don’t have any hope that I’m going to get any help.

This isn’t good enough. Fuck today.


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