I’m not a fan of sharing personal stuff, really. But when it comes to medical nonsense, I’m all for it. Might help someone, after all. So for health matters, I’m happy to share. Triggers: every expense spared. No punches pulled.

Around a decade ago, I had endometrial ablation surgery – essentially, where the womb lining was burned away, to prevent the excruciating periods that were taking over my life —we’re talking two bleeds a month, and pain as bad as labour (the crotchgoblin kind, not the political party, just so we’re clear). And it worked! After an initial, post-surgery bloodrush, I had no periods for ten years…

…until a few weeks ago. Oh, joy.

A sudden onslaught of goo and agony, and I ended up taking myself off to the GP. “You need an urgent ultrasound,” she said, “within nine days.” And what with the NHS being brilliant ’n’ all, they sorted it within two. Cool, huh? Well, not so much. The ablation had caused the front and back walls of the uterus to fuse together, so they were unable to see into the damn thing with either the ultrasound wotsit or an up-the-vazoolah camera (and that thing frickin’ KILLED, I can tell ya, pressing on the ol’ cervix as it did). Soooo… surgical intervention was needed.

“Nothing to worry about, we’ll book you in for a hysteroscopy. We just need to open the womb up and take a look inside. We’ll take a biopsy while we’re there—just a little slice—and if there are any fibroids or polyps, we’ll remove them there and then. See if we can find out why you’re bleeding peri-menopause and post ablation. Want a general anaesthetic?”

“God, no. Can ya just send me away with the fairies?”

“Sure. We’ll take you as kite-high as legally permissible.” (Not strictly verbatim.)

Cut to: me, a couple of weeks later, having sorted the time off from work with my very understanding boss (seriously – so lucky to have a line manager who GETS it, yanno?), and it’s the day before the surgery. Muggins ’ere chooses that moment to read the pre-op guidance. For some women, this procedure can be extremely painful under local anaesthetic, in which case it is likely we would schedule further surgery under general anaesthetic.

WELP. That’s me screwed, then. *Recalls the last time she had surgery under Lidocaine (or whatever it was) and having to be prised off the ceiling with a frickin’ spatula*

So, I opted for the general-knock-out-job after all. This, of course, meant I had to write my Last Will and Testament, coz it’s just how I roll, ’kay? Left a note for Rob, going into great (for ‘great,’ read ‘bizarre’) detail about settling my affairs. Emailed it over, advising him to open it only in the event of snuffage. Named it DEATH RANT. Started it with something like ‘If you are reading this, I have shuffled offa this mortal coil and am trying to look after you all from Beyond the Grave (Booo… **cute ghost noises**)”

Followed this up with, “I DO NAHT want a funeral. No grave, no nuffin’. Direct cremation, cheap as possible.” Included such gems as “Punch a nazi. Punch two. Keep the faith – the good guys win in the end, and love will prevail, as it did for us. But do find love again. You deserve it. I promise not to perv on you from the Spooky Realm as you’re bumping uglies.”

I might—slightly, kinda, sorta— have been a little freaked out by the idea of leaving everyone behind. I’m an unapologetic what-iffer, it has to be said.

Anyway… I digress…ended up in Clatterbridge at 7:30am on the 30^th of December. Spoke with the surgeon dude (and he was a dude—I have jeans older than him) who gave me the low-down of the show-down: “We’ll open ya up, and we’re hoping to kick you out the same day. What this procedure won’t do is tell you why you’ve been bleeding. It’s not a diagnostic. You’ll get your biopsy results within four weeks, and your GP will tell you the next steps.”

Okay, then.

“We’ll pump ya full of painkillers and anti-sickness goodies, this’ll all wear off after twenty-four hours, so tomorrow is gonna be the worst day, pain-wise. Keep yourself dosed up.”

Noted.

“Here’s some schmexy support stockings. Keep these on for three days. Take ’em off to shower, obvs. When you’re firing on all cylinders again, which we expect to be within three to four days, you can lose them. Sound good?”

And that was it. Paper knickers on.

Me: in and out of theatre, them: in and out of me. Biopsy: taken. Aftercare advice: “Monitor your bleeding. If you’re changing your pad more than once an hour—no tampons, only pads, this is important—get to the GP or down to out-of-hours. Let’s check your pad now.”

*Pulls drawers down* “Argh! What’s this brown gunk? Did I—”

“Ah, no, sweetie. You didn’t. It’s just iodine.”

Thank fuck for small mercies, as the saying doesn’t go.

So here’s me now, the day after, bleeding and in pain, dosed up on Co-codamol and Ibuprofen, which of course means I have to take other, counter-acty drugs, not least due to my beautiful IBS, which means I can’t even tolerate the Ibubastard without Omeprazole. And then there’s the husk I have to take to enable my gut to cope with the Co-codeytwat.

ANYWAY, they showed me the photos. Looked a bit like those eye-close-ups you get at the opticians. Kinda like little pics of planets. But with black spots. Said black spots might just be shadows from the camera, but we’ll find out for sure within the next four weeks.

Might need a hysterectomy, which is what they’d said, ten years ago, I might ultimately need. And I am kinda pinning all my hopes on it. I’ve had chronic problems with both intestine and uterus for thirty-plus years now, and I’m convinced the two are linked. Let’s get rid of that womb, I say. Give me more room in there, and less to contend with. My body does NOT do periods. I’m too old for that shit, I swear. At 51, and after three perfect kids, I’ve done my time, paid my dues. I was supposed to be all peri-menopausal ’n’ stuff, and instead, I’m currently back to painful fortnightly bleeds.

Let’s stop the bleedin’ before I go bleedin’ mad.