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 things 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?

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 to paint the true picture. If it’s gonna take 50 weeks, tell them 50. Don’t—for the love of fuck’s uncle—tell them 27.

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.”

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.