gynaecology

Womb for Improvement

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I hate being off work sick. HATE it. And not only because of the potential for disciplinary action, or that my wages are inevitably going to suffer. I miss the routine. I miss doing something valuable with my day that gives me a sense of achievement, even though I am still learning and prone to making the odd slip-up or three.

But the worst thing about being off sick is…drumroll…the sickness. If I’m off, I’m poorly; lately, said poorliness is akin to WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKEROO IS GOING ON INSIDE OF ME? And WHY THE EQUALLY-ACTUAL-FUCKEROO IS THIS PERIMENOBOLLOX TAKING SO LONG?

I like work. It’s the sort of job where you can come in, make a brew, set up your desk and dive in, doing whatever it is that needs doing. I love learning, and this wee job o’mine certainly fits the bill.

But I don’t fit at the moment.

These days, I am also prone to bursts of gasping, yelping, and screaming—hardly ideal.

“Yes, Mr. McGinty, I can—ARGH!—sort that for you.”

“Bear with me a sec, Mrs. McGunty, and I’ll check your—OOF!—accounts.”

“Thanks for your—YOWCH!—payment, Mr. McGoonty.”

On a REALLY bad day (I’ve been having a lot of those, lately), I’d possibly run the risk of a FUCKFUCKFUCK in the middle of a conversation, or a FUCKING HELL, MAKE IT STOP as I’m trying to explain the law. This damned illness has brought with it a certain level of cussage that escapes my rubber lips on a whim, whether I want it to or not. (And no, it’s not Tourette’s, because I can help it. It’s just that I can’t help it.)

What started as occasional period pains progressed into permanent ones. Because I am me, of course, they weren’t mere run o’the mill period pains, and affected pretty much every part of me from the chest down. To put a cherry on it, those escalated into quasi-contractions, on an every-now-and-again basis. No fun, but manageable (barely). They were the margarine of contractions. The Diet Coke of contractions. Just one calorie: not contracty enough.

This week, though, I’ve had a demonic entity in there. A verifiable, downright diabolical what-the-fuck. I feel—no word of a lie—preggers. About eleventy million months along. This thing is huge, I can feel it. There is a chance of it making its own way out, too: uterine prolapse, they call it. FUN! Saturday saw 24 hours of contractions. Full-on, About to Have a Baby contractions. Fat Bastard Coke, Pure evil. Couldn’t walk. Could barely breathe. Had to use a mobility scooter. Ordered crutches.

Tuesday, the crutches arrived. How the bazoolah anybody over six stones can use these damned things is beyond me. Balancing on what might as well be toothpicks while lifting the weight of a bus condensed into something the size of a baby elephant must be an acquired skill. Fell into the wall once or twice. Shelved that idea.

I’d been soooo in the dark about perimenopause; I hadn’t educated myself AT ALL until I had to, having assumed it’d pass, sans problème, once I’d had a cheek-blush and a hot flush (my mother seemed to fly through hers, and I must’ve thought I would, too. Ha! What the shite, Lin?). If I don’t write about it, though, I’ll cry about it. (Who are we kidding? I do that as well. But only if the day ends in ‘y’…) So, now, that’s what I do. I write. About all of it.

Brevity is not my forte. If you’re still reading this, you will have already reached that conclusion: I do love a good ramble, it has to be said. I’ve had some lovely feedback, though. Readers have reached out to let me know they’re enjoying these blogthangs, to tell me they feel seen, that they identify with the whole medical sitch. And I love that. Shedding light on this motherfucker is a good reason to keep on keeping on.

I’m here for the haters, too. You know the sort: “Is she banging on about herfuckingself AGAIN?” (The sort who despise you, yet can’t help following you. Here’s a big hello from me. *Waves*)

I have to stay positive, even if I am dying inside. With that in mind, I’ve been getting proactive and chasing things up with my surgeon, with a view to finding out why I’m on week 40 of what was supposed to be a 27-week waiting list. I’ve been doing so for weeks. A month or so ago, I was promised a callback, and it still hasn’t happened, so I rang again yesterday. This involved the surgeon’s secretary being so kind as to point out that the delay is due to Surge being a CANCER cutter-outer who can’t fit in NON-CANCER patients, what with all the CANCER.

“She can’t fit in routine surgery, as she has so many CANCER surgeries to get through.”

“It’s not routine. I’ve been assured as such. **Lists reasons**”

She backpedalled, then. “Oh, I know, it’s just… we’ll be in touch when she can fit you in.”

My dude, I get it. Fuck cancer. Cancer is bad. Cancer is worse than whatever the shit is going on with my own particular innards. What I have is NOT AS BAD AS CANCER. But why try to make me feel shitty about it? Should I sit down and shut up about my surgery being waaaay past the target date because other people have it worse?

I would never, EVER minimise cancer. SO many of my loved ones have lived with it and died with it, and I could be next (quite literally—I’m at risk of ovarian, uterine, and cervical cancers, hence the need for the op). But let’s get one thing straight: I don’t care about myself. Sucks to say it, but I don’t. I’m not chasing this up for selfish reasons. I’m chasing this up for my children’s mother. For my husband’s wife. I stay sick, I lose my job. I lose my job, my children lose their home. It’s as simple as that. I don’t feel any sense of entitlement, I am not owed surgery. Cancer patients are a priority. Cancer patients are more important than me—they just are. But change your damned targets and paint a true picture for your patients. If it’s gonna take 50 weeks, tell them 50. Don’t—for the love of fuck’s uncle—tell them 27…

…and maybe, just maybe push the boat out and hire an OB-GYN instead of relying on a cancer surgeon?

On a positive note, one person (aside from Rob, my perfect, perfect husband) who has been an absolute tonic through all this…drumroll 2: the return* …is Jen, my magnificent cousin, who works in the same office as moi.

*Is a second bout of drumming a repercussion? (I’m here all week.)

Me: “I’ve been told my womb could prolapse. Imagine me at work, and suddenly, there’s goo between my legs, ‘Don’t mind me, that’s just my uterus.'”

Jen: “I’ll make sure there’s some sort of uterus-pushy-in stick in the office.”

Me: **Falls about**

Jen: “Don’t laugh too hard, or Rob’ll have to come and get the stick.”

A Reaper Cushion I found on Etsy just now.

Hopefully, I’ll be at work tomorrow, stick or no. Maybe I’ll feel better by then, I tell myself; fingers, toes and eyes crossed. Chin up, girl; chest out, stay chipper. It’s not all womb and gloom.

You Must Be Lying (or: Live Your Truth)

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The inconsistency of disability and/or chronic illness is such that one minute, you can be ambling around the shops, nary a care, and the next, you’re on your back – and not in a good way. (There’ll be none of that, thank you very much!) You are on week 40 of the Organ Extraction waiting list, although you had been promised said snippage by week 27. The NHS app tells you that most people are treated within 18 weeks, and eight out of ten such organ-havers are treated within 32. Well, that’s nice. You’re two in ten. Humph.

You make an absolute arse of yourself, nagging the GP and the consultant.

“I could lose my job,” you tell ’em, “as I’m in constant agony and there are days I can’t even walk.”

Sometimes, you cry down the phone, or face-to-face at the doc’s. Occasionally, someone listens: you’ve reached the point where the GP is—finally!—writing to the consultant to ask them to fuckingwell get their fucking finger out (actual wording may vary).

Perimenopause is the Devil, and has given you a Mephistophelimp. Said limp varies from day to day: at the start of the week, your knee decides to fuck you over; Wednesday brings pelvic pain that makes you want to rip your insides out; by Friday, your hips and arse-cheeks have died a death. An excruciating one. You manage—somehow—to walk* with delicate placement: treading a specific tread with your left foot and balancing precariously on the ball of your right, and you’ve taken to using a stick as a replacement for the shoddier of your legs.

*hobble

Hovering on one pin, you discover, feels niiiice. Going all Flamingo takes the weight off and the pain away. You visit your even more poorly mother (bless her) in hospital, and because of the lousy set-up, the distinct absence of visitors’ chairs, ya rest yer manky knee on yer ma’s bed. SO NICE. SUCH A RELIEF! This discovery leads you to the interwebz, where you order a pair of crutches so you can travel by elbow in future, the crap leg swinging freely.

At The Big Tesco (because it’s never just Tesco, is it? And don’t get me started on The Asda), you hop** onto the mobility scooter thingie. Luckily, the shelves and their contents survive, because you happen to manoeuvre that thing like a frickin’ ledge. (You have skills, girl, and don’t you forget it—no matter what your crumbling carcass has you believe.) This is what it’s come to.

**stumble

By the time evening rolls around, you’re in such a state that you are, not to put too fine a point on it, utterly fucking done. Would that you had a saw. Off with the leg! Sever it at the hip! No – slice higher!

But no, you persevere. You get out. You stay in. You take all manner of painkillers, massage in the Ibu-gel, and try the exercise bike. And d’ya know what? It works—sort of. It’s the one pain-free activity you can do. Must be something about the muscle groups you’re using; there’ll be a scientific explanation for why you can do this but not that. This leads to thinky thoughtstuff: your busy little brain gets all a-wonderin’. Maybe I should get my skates on. See what those muscles can do. Maybe I should go for a run—

—then you breathe the wrong way or blink too hard, and the pain, back with a vengeance, kicks you right in the cojones (whether you have a pair or not). There is to be no skating. No running. A bit more moping, maybe. Writing, definitely; a lot more complaining, fo’ sho’.

Perception is everything: how you see yourself can have a gigantic impact on your health. How others see you comes into the mix, too: when you have a disability, a chronic illness, or even a health-niggle, your ailments often wear an invisibility cloak. If your symptoms vary from day to day—or hour to hour—the cloak might slip, and it can seem to others that you are taking the piss. You must be lying.

“She was fine the other day.”

“She was limping last week; how can she be darting around today?”

“She’s fine; I saw her at the market, laughing at the superfluous apostrophes.” (Okay, that last one’s weird. But so am I.)

But you know the truth. You know your truth.

And I know mine. Mine involves variety. No two days are the same, no two limps are alike. Drugs can work, drugs can fail. I’m brim-full with positivity, or I’m bed-bound, sleeping so I don’t have to be awake. I can get proactive, chasing up appointments and making plans, or I can wither away into a crumpled heap, consoling myself with tea (ALL the tea) and biscuits. One constant remains, though: writing. No matter my mood, the words are there. They want to come out, and I must let them.

These are my words, this is my life, this is my truth, and I shall continue to live it.

One I Made Earlier: Selfie After a Previous Operation. (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I AM STILL FUCKING WAITING FOR THE NEXT ONE.)

Foe is Me

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Not getting any better. Not even remotely. HRT would help enormously, but I can’t have it – they won’t do the op if you’re taking it. I have no choice but to suck it up and get on with it until my organs are sucked out of me. Which is likely to be September, I’m told.

But get on with what, exactly? I don’t want to do anything. I can’t do much at all, really. In this heat, I am all but absofuckinlutely, well and truly, utterly fuckin’ buggered. My knees and my hips keep seizing, my collection of gooey gynaecological objects has gone cuckoopants, and I am so high on painkillers that a flock of seagulls has just flown past me. And yes, I did have that hairdo in the eighties. (More like a hairdon’t, but I digress.)

Despite the one-foot-in-the-grave*-ness of it all, there is a thing, and the thing is this: I might be signed off sick but I still have to parent. I am still a carer. I still have to do the mom-stuff and the daughter-stuff when I can’t do the day job. Which means I still have to get the shopping in (which all but kills me), feed people, deal with my elderly mum’s care needs, and do all the Mom-as-PA nonsense with the kids’ schools.

(*I wonder what the cremation version is. One speck of ash in the urn?)

My brain (cell) is all NOPE, probably because it’s in tune with my equally nopey body. And as meltdown malarkeys would have it, I have little aptitude for thought. What little thinking I am doing includes but is not limited to the likes of:

“Is it completely inadvisable to operate on oneself? I have a delightful kitchen knife…”

Alright, so I am my own worst enemy. I’ve never been a fan of myself (or my stupid body), and lately, the self-loathing has reached a new low. But I do have moments of clarity. Moments where I try to have a word with myself, and stay positive. So, with that in mind, I thought it might be just spiffing to shelve berating myself for a while. Stop beating myself up for not being able to work/take the kids out/do normal human things. I can’t bake; hell, I can’t even do the wordthang (there’s a novel that isn’t going to write itself, a poetry collection to compile, and my collection of Liverpool horror stories needs an edit). That’s how I know I’m ill. I’ve lost the will to write, to pun, to rhyme (Is that one collective will or three discrete wills? I ask my annoying self…).

So, I started a sentence with ‘So’. Then, in the interests of staying just PEACHY POSITIVE, I wrote a list of things I am able to do at the moment:

  1. Write lists
  2. Mope
  3. Complain
  4. Whine
  5. Shout at clouds.

That’s it. I’m officially ancient. I don’t need to yell, “Where’s me cane?” because I already have one. I use it to point at things.