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.
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’. MaybeI 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.)
…they just, as the song goes, make you worse. Sigh.
A couple of weeks ago, my GP prescribed Duloxetine, a replacement for the Amitriptyline I can’t tolerate—which in turn, was a replacement for the Nortriptyline I had been unable to tolerate before that. (These are typically used as anti-depressants but are also pretty good, I’m told, for tackling neuro-pain.) But what with my neurodifuckity being on fi-yuh of late (thanks, Brain), picking up the prescription slipped my mind; it was only when I had to collect Mum’s script that I remembered my own. So, I collected it yesterday and took my first dose before bed.
Bad idea. Really bad. Terrible nightmares, most of which involved images of THIS BOX. Dream-people telling me it was dangerous, warning me not to take it because it messes with the ol’ hormones… which is ill-advised when one is awaiting surgery…
…and I woke up the sickest I’d been since the Pregnancy Years. Real, throwy-uppy badness. So nauseated I wanted to curl up and sleep it all away.
What pisses me off the most, though, is having to call in sick again. After the latest bout, I’d just been getting back on track, feeling pretty well, aside from having to have the occasional stick-day (leaning on that thing helps with the joint pain and the stomach nonsense). But apparently, my body just does NAHT take chemical changes well.
The upshot of all this is I’ve decided to go completely drug-free. Medication is more trouble than it’s worth. Of course, this means I am now rethinking the idea of going on HRT once I’ve had my hysterectomy. Might go au naturel with that, too. Better knuckle down and do some research. To drug, or not to drug, as Hamlet didn’t say.
I’d never intended on having a loud, dramatic life, but shit keeps happening. It just does, so the least I can do is write about it. One day, I’ll look back on all this and laugh, right?
I have high hopes, though. I have every intention of coming out on the other side—not the death thing, the other thing. Getting through it. Being better than ever – evolving like the finest of on-screen protagonists, making decisions good and bad, and reaching the end of my character arc with heaps and heaps of tales to tell.
I’d been coping alright at work, what with having a very understanding boss who makes sure I have reasonable adjustments in place: extra bathroom breaks, a rise-and-fall desk, yada yada… then This Weekend happened.
We were in town with a couple of the crotchgoblins when I had to bend down to de-stone my shoe. This was the precise moment I realised One Can Not Bend That Way Anymore. What. The. Bazoolah? I had to lean on my lovely hubby and ended up doing this weird, awkward thing where I tried to bring my foot up instead of taking my body down… you had to be there, I guess, but trust me, it was a comical sight. Except I wasn’t laughing. Quite the opposite: floods.
I spent the next half-hour hobbling back to the car and whining about being knackered and wondering When Did I Get So Old?
Allegedly, it gets better after DA OP. The hip pain, all the pelvic nonsense and the inability to fold oneself in half, they’re (supposedly) due to the hormonal shitshow I’m experiencing right now.
But that’s cool, right? I’m perfectly normal. RIGHT?
I had no sleep last night. Zero. One of the symptoms, par for the course. But with me, it’s a whole different story. I have to have ALL the symptoms at once, because of course I do.
My brain was no friend to me: It made sure I ran the whole gamut of gamuts. Worrying, restless legs, anxiety, overthinking, even guilt—I knew, as I was lying there awake at 4am, that I’d be calling in sick at 8, but there’s always that moment, that sliver of self-doubt: Am I poorly enough to be off work? Will they believe me? What if they think I’m swingin’ the lead?
And then there’s that other moment. The one where you whack yourself over the noggin with a good ol’ reality check. It goes like this:
Who exactly are you trying to kid? Look at you. You’ve just rubbed freeze gel on your thighs and Ibuprofen on your knees. You have had no sleep to speak of, you’ve been to the loo seventeen times in the last six hours, (that’s seventeen journeys up the stairs, each of which took an inordinate amount of time because LOOK AT THE FRICKIN’ STATE OF YOU), and you’ve had to cave in and reach for the drugs even though you KNOW they’ll set your stomach off, because otherwise you won’t be able to move. And you’re worrying about work?Get outa here.
So, I listened to myself, for once. I called in sick, and will have to face the consequences—being off is barely even a choice when I’m like this. Why? Well, for one, I can’t word. I can type just fine, but when I am in this much pain, speech goes out the mucky window. I find it hard to string sentences together, and can even sound leathered. Imagine me on the blower to a customer: “Yesh, Mr. Schmith, I shall short it out for you thish week…” That’s if I had the chance to be on the phone at all, what with having to all but camp out in the bathroom.
So why the blog? You know me. I love a good whine. That’s ‘whine’ with an aitch. None of that drinking bollox for me these days. Can’t tolerate it. Not for want of trying, like. Over the last few months, I have tried to drink. I’ve poured myself a glass every now and then, and it’s either given me acidmadness or intolerable stomach cramps. So, yeah: no.
If I am writing, no matter the subject, I am alive. I am here to tell my story. And who knows? Maybe it’ll resonate. Perhaps someone will read this and come to realise they’re not alone. You need to talk? Hit me up.
There’s a lovely lass in the office who’s been helping me with this stuff (thanks, JJ!) – so if I can be that person to someone else, I am all ears (and shoulders. Honestly, they are covered in middle-age flab so they’re infinitely comfortable). Speak and I shall listen. Come: rest your head, let me put my bingo wings around you.
One I made earlier: pics from a previous procedure
I’m not a fan of sharing personal stuff, really. But when it comes to health matters, I’m all for it. Might help someone, after all. So, because 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 OBVS 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 30th 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. When you’re firing on all cylinders again, which we expect to be within three to four days, you can lose ’em. 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 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.
DAY TWO: The-day-after-the-day-after…
It’s New Year’s Day. Stayed up ’til midnight on NYE, coz of course I did. What’s weird, though, is that I slept through until about 6:30 – totally unheard of for me. (I usually wake on the hour, every hour, ancient bladders being what they are.) Maybe it’s because I’m still blessed with some of that delightful anaesthetic. NHS advice does state you can be sleepy for days, so that makes sense. But also: OW. The sore throat (from the intra-gobular breathing tube) is worse than it was yesterday, and everything else hurts, too.
Like the day after the day after a fall, or two days after a gruelling gym workout (not that I have any recent examples of that), today is proving rather sucky. Woke with horrid back pain and had to grab the TENS machine and a hot water bottle. Again, the bumph confirms that muscle stiffness and aching can last for several days, post-op. Apparently, it’s worse for folk with pre-existing back pain or conditions such as arthritis, so there’s another tick-in-a-box for me. Yay. And the period pains are back with afuckinvengeance. I’d all but forgotten how shite it felt to be sitting on the loo, just bleeding away, little micro-contractions threatening to take away your sanity.
I don’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing that ‘Your body can take up to a week to completely eliminate the medicines from your system’ — on the plus side, that might mean I’m having a little extra pain relief still coursing through my chassis, right? But on the ol’ flipperoo, what if I’m unable to work tomorrow?
NHS guidelines: avoid work for 48 hours after general anaesthetic, as your judgement may be impaired. Specifically: Do not sign legal documents or make important decisions. This is pretty much the bones and sinew of my day job, so there’s that. Cool.
The 48 hours is up, though. It’s a non-working day today, being New Year ‘n’ all, so I don’t have to worry about it for now. But what of tomorrow? Will I be fit and well, able to move about (I was using a stick yesterday, which I must admit was a great help), and fully compos mentis* when it comes to decision making? I have to worry about this, because ultimately, it’s something I could lose my job over. One sick day ‘too many’ and it’s oral warning time. Let’s face it, though: I’ve been here before. You don’t experience three decades of sickness without understanding how the Managing Attendance process works. And I’ve been all the way through it, culminating in dismissal in early 2016. Somehow, I’d proved myself worthy of a second chance by March 2025, and was doing pretty well… until I wasn’t. Until THE BLEED.
*As if. My brain hasn’t functioned properly since circa 1976. Nutso is the new normal.
Ho hum, right? All a gal can do is suck it up and get on with it, I guess. Maybe I’ll be okay tomorrow, or maybe I’ll need that extra day off. All I know is that today, I won’t be able to prepare the fabulous NYD feast I was planning, and will have to get the kids to muck in. Maybe we’ll have a toned-down table this year, sans trimmings. But one thing I can say for sure is that THERE WILL BE CAKE. Like me, it might even be filled with red goo.
DAY THREE – It Ain’t Ova Until the Fat LadySlims
Alright, alright, I’m no lady (quiet at the back, there). What I am, though, is an egg. I realised this today, 72 hours post-surgery, when I tried to remove the surgical sockeroos after a(nother) bad night’s sleep, and just could NAHT fold in t’middle. Seriously: ever tried to bend an egg?
Still woozy, still groggy, a little bit foggy, barely able to function, definitely unable to work. I did manage a bit of baking, though, because that’s simps, innit? I do that sort of stuff in me kip, like. Also managed a little bit of eating, too; while that won’t help with the bloating, it’ll certainly help soak up all the damned drugs. I’ve had enough of ’em now, and just want my brain back, thankyouplease.
The eggage should subside soon, I understand. Just as well, really, being that I can’t do me kecks up at the mo (and nobody back at the office wants to see that, I can assure ya. Nothing like a 14-year-old c-section Kanga-pouch to put ya off yer paperwork). Don’t get me wrong, I’m not sitting here moping or anything, or filled with toxic self-loathing (I proudly knocked that poisonous shit off back in 2018 and haven’t looked back), I’m just waxin’. Warts ‘n’ all, yada yada. It is, as they say, what it is. And, like I said, what it is, is an egg. A big, fat egg. Tell a lie: it’s more solid than fat. Imagine, if you will, a panel beater in the market for a wok-former. “Tell me,” he says, “wherever might I find the ideally rotund shape over which to beat this sheet of metal I conveniently have upon my person?”
You just point him in my direction. Tell him I said Hi.
My wonderful husband, of course, has—rather wonderfully—been wonderfully wonderful, and has been on hand for the lifting up of spirits and the lifting-of-the-Denby (the gorgeous-est but HEAVIEST tableware known to humankind) so I’ve had to lift nary a wee finger. Rob and I are carers as well as parentals, so we have other folk to look after when we’re not busy being poorly ourselves or bringing home the Quorn Bacon. With laughter and song, though (and a metric effton of pisstakery), we manage. No—we more than manage. We love. And with love, it’s really quite simple. We might not have much, but we have it all. Life is good. No eggsistential crises here.
(I might be feeling crummy, but despite my being an unabashed wordbotherer, I must say this: I’m rather proud of myself for my pun-avoidance. Those things are just œuful.)
Some eggs I* found earlier. (*Ripley. Believe it Or Not!)
DAY FOUR: The Rolling Stoned
Still an egg. Still weebly: I wobble but I don’t fall down. Can’t see me own bits for the life of me—not that I would want to, y’understand? I had feet, once, too, I believe. Okay, okay, I’m exaggerating. The balloon has burst a little. I can zip my jeans up a millimetre more than I could yesterday, and that’s a win. (As if I’m wearing any kind of outdoor clobber. You KNOW I’m sitting here on my fat arse in plush pyjamas.)
Mr Aitch has popped out for baking supplies because I just CAN. NOT. COPE if I go a few days without creating something beautiful (or horrific). On the menu today: Mac and Cheese (one vegetarian, one vegan), and perhaps a batchacookies. Won’t be me eating ’em, mind; no appetite to speak of unless we’re talkin’ bagged potato slices. The salty ones. I want the crisps and need the crisps and will eat ALL the crisps, gosh darn it.
Stories are happening, too. I’m helping a friend with a book; delving into the corridors of a spooky mansion helps me take myself out of the ol’ self-indulgent whining for a bit. My own stuff is ticking along nicely, too, even if I manage to write only half a paragraph a day (this blog excepted). Progress is progress!
Feeling a little Rear Windowy, though. Being out of action as I am, all I can do is sit ‘ere and observe from the shadows… Muah-ha-ha… can you feel my eyes on you? Can you sense my collection of Liverpool horror stories creeping up behind you? I bet you can’t. I’m notoriously stealthy, despite my current girth.
Might roll myself off the sofa in a sec to grab a brew. No tablets today—must prepare for the great de-fogging of 2026. I’d rather have a touch of pain than not be able to brain, yanno? And braining being what it is, I might stick with the horror, might tackle the feature-length, or venture down the poetry route. Who knows? The words are there for the taking, and take them I shall.
One I made earlier. Like me, it’s blurred.
DAY WHATEVER: Contractual Obligations
It’s the day after the last update, I know that much. I also know I’m pissed off: yesterday was THE WORST. But on the plus side, I’ve been inundated (in the best way) with emails and messages from friends and cohorts. So many folk have reached out; either to wish me well, to thank me for sharing, or to swap stories—gal pals who are still recovering from a hysteroscopy seven, ten days later; fellas whose other halves started out with the ‘scope and ended up having The Lot Out. And it all helps.
My headvoice has been going, “See? It’s not just you,” on repeat, to save me from all the gosh-darned infernal moping while I’ve been contractin’ in the bathroom, apparently trying to pass a giant land animal. Mid-mantra, though, Mum’s been hovering outside the bathroom in a panic, worrying the kids: “She’s crying. She needs to go to A&E.” – Tell me you’ve never had stomach/gynae issues without telling me… One does not simply stew in agony for hours in a fit-to-burstin’ waiting room while experiencing the Baby Elephant Cramps (Mancini missed an opportunity with that one, fo’ sho’). No: one simply sobs, wails the Banshee Blues, then collapses into bed with a fluffy water bottle (full nearly to t’brim with the contents of a kettle and topped up with hot tears).
I’m not embellishing this, either. It really IS like frickin’ labour. It comes in waves… but these contractions, burning my insides out, making a Lin Brûlée of me, come whenever the friggever they like. There’s no timing them, there’s neither rhyme nor reason. And there’s no beautiful baby at the end of it. I wish there was something, though. Something to explain it all; to make it all make sense.
I’ve got myself into the habit of venting on here, though. It’s helping me stay sane. It’s also going to serve as a diary of sorts, even if I am putting the pissed into epistolary. I don’t even care if anyone else reads it—it’s a Dear Lin letter to myself, not least because I have a head like a colander (bigger holes than a sieve). Mind you, I’m pretty sure I won’t be forgetting any of this. It’s being burned into my memory as we speak (or, yanno, type).
Burny.
DAY 10: LOSING THE WILL TO WHINE
I *think* it’s day ten. Haven’t blogged for a few days – proof of illness: If I ain’t writin’, I ain’t copin’. And I haven’t been. Quite a lot has happened since the last update, including a visit to the GP (“How come you’re here so soon? It’s only been a week, you can be expected to suffer for a couple more weeks, yet.”)
She couldn’t tell me much, as we were still waiting on the biopsy results, but she referred me for a blood test to check if I’m still fertile (i.e. Why the HECK am I Still Bleeding at My Age?). I asked about a hysterectomy, as I’m pretty much dead-set on that, now. It’s what they suggested ten years ago, should the ablation end up failing (which it apparently has). But this is something I’ll have to speak to gynae about.
Had the results call yesterday (Wednesday): negative for the Big C (woo-hoo!) but positive for Polyps (yah boo sucks). They snipped off at least one of the little dickheads in the biposy but can’t confirm if there are any others. I’m waiting for another call with another update… the polyps might have been the cause of the bleeding, but it might be a menstruation-thang—in which case, I am absolutely screwed. Periods and I do not get along, hence my having had the ablation surgery in the first place.
So, I’m signed off work until the 19th of January, but I’m really hoping to be firing on all cylinders long before then—I just want my routine back, yanno? I actually wanna be well!
Yesterday, though, was a bastard of an utter bollock. A big, hairy, sweaty bastard bollock. The worst day so far, by a LONG shot. My body completely failed me; I ended up being rendered completely immobile in the kitchen at 10pm, utterly frozen in place with the pain. Couldn’t move a muscle. And in front of the kids, to boot.
I don’t like hiding things from them, never have. I’ve always advocated being in touch with one’s emotions, and I’m not afraid to cry. Good job, really, or I’d have years and years of backed-up tears. But these kids—oh, man. The little one wanted to stay off school today just to look after his mama. What an angel. I might be in a terrible place right now, but at least while I’m here, I’m surrounded by the BEST people.
Da boi.
DAY 16 (?) FROM TIPPING POINT TO TURNING POINT
It’s been hard to bat away the Black Dog, gotta be honest. I always get like this when I’m poorly. Am I really that sick? There are people far worse off…and then I try to do something simple like take a ten-minute walk or pick something up from the floor and realise damn, yeah; I am reallythat sick.
I’ve been relying on a stick (sorry, Ma; I nicked one of yours while you weren’t using it), which has really helped. It redistributes the weight (of which there is way too much) so I can take some of the pressure off my mid-section. I’m not arsed about how I look, or looking ‘old before my time’ or any of that BS. But that’s not to say I haven’t been beating myself up. It’s open to me to work from home, but I can’t even do that at the moment— taking phone calls from customers is a no-go until I’m better, what with having to get to the bathroom six or seven times a day at a moment’s notice. Imagine how that would go down: “Yes, Mrs. So-and-so, I’ll sort that for you now… ARRRRRGHGHGH! Gotta go and have some contractions!” (Let alone trying to get my head around complex legislation and making good decisions.)
Speaking of phone calls, though, I had THE CALL today. After a quick hobble to the GP surgery to have my bloods taken, I had a call from Gynae. They explained that the hysteroscopy had been ‘a difficult one’ as the womb is pretty much sealed shut from wall-to-wall, and it’s possible that ‘there may be a small piece of tissue stuck in there, which might account for the protracted pain.’ Ah. Not great, but at least it might explain why I’m taking longer to recover than anticipated.
But then…
“We think you’re right. You’re gonna need a hysterectomy.”
WAIT… WHAT? Someone has finally listened to me? And they AGREE? I’ve asked for a procedure and they’re actually on board with it? Knock me down with a feather.
“You’re at risk for prolapse of the womb, and for endometrial cancer.” (This, despite my having been taken off the Cancer Pathway.) “We’ll whip it all out.”
“What about the ovaries?”
“There’s a slightly increased risk of dementia in those who have had their ovaries removed, but I’m not convinced by the studies, to be honest. There’s no evidence that suggests removal is a cause.”
“Nope. Probably a correlation, right?” (RIGHT?)
“Yes. And the benefits you’ll see will outweigh those risks. And then you’ll be eliminating a whole bunch of stuff that could’ve been causing this pain.”
And that’s the point. That’s precisely the point. I’ve been convinced for decades that my IBS and gynae pain are linked – and they agreed. “There’s definitely a link. And because you’re at risk from [several different cancers], it makes sense to remove what we can now.”
IT MAKES SENSE.
It’s a load off. A massive load. It’s validation, yanno? I didn’t want to get to the Spike Milligan stage and have to spook people from beyond the grave with spectral I-told-you-sos.
Libera te Tutemet 