Tomorrow, my consultant is probably going to say he'll refer me to his friend and apparently highly-regarded colleague in London. I shall insist I am against it.
I'm as certain as I can be after Sunday's devastating sobfest that I want no more "treatments", I want no more "to see how it goes" or, "to see if there's some improvement". All the years I asked for help, all the people who let me down, all that time I've lost waiting for a possible reduction in pain, suffering through days and nights of unspeakable agony from periods, waiting for appointments, waiting for the artificial hormones to leave... I have had enough.
And here's a thing: the dihydrocodeine doesn't work enough now so I've been prescribed morphine. And this is when I "shouldn't" be having any pain. "Shouldn't" as per The Law of Endometriosis, i.e. "sod the rules; let's go against logic". Previous posts, if you don't know about the menopause injections, explain all that.
To think of all the places I could have gone, the festivals, the museums, the galleries, the friends in those beautiful foreign lands and in counties so close.
To remember the times I said I'd be somewhere but wasn't, the tickets I bought and couldn't use, the calls and texts and emails to let people know I had to let them down, again.
Because of a period, whether waiting for or having one. Because of the "mid-month" fatigue and bleeding and pain. Because of not knowing how I would be and not being able to afford risking wasting the money.
Because of endometriosis. ALL because of that.
I have never wanted to be a mother. As a child, I used to play with dolls and pretend to be a Mummy and pretend the dolls were babies and such. And I assumed the longing for my own baby would arrive. It hasn't. Mostly, children irritate me. Friends' children are really incredibly cute and sweet. Polite. But others? No. I really don't have the urge to reproduce. I don't ever see it happening.
Cats? HOLYMOLY. I LOVE MY CATS. Kitten paws? Cat squeaks? Purring? WHISKERS?? Adorable. I do girly squee stuff and say, "Awww!!" a helluvalot at those gorgeous fluffy lovely gorgeous cheeky monkeys. Cheekychops. I love my Rosie more than words could ever say. Ever.
I love to feed the birds. Love to. Woodpigeons, house sparrows, starlings, blue tits, great tits, fieldfares, blackbirds - GIMME. I clean their feeding apparatus, complete with many splats of their pungent guano (brilliantly poetic word for "bird shit") with a grimace but pride, because I know I'm helping them, helping the cheeky starlings and house sparrows survive. The comic antics of the stunningly-coloured woodpigeons are total entertainment, at which I do actual LOLZes. Truly.
Babies? Human babies? No. Not mine.
I can not risk my sanity any more than it has been risked already. My mind and body can not survive any longer in this permanent state of flux. On and off for the last 4 to 6 weeks I have wanted to end it all. Make it stop. Stop the hurt. Stop the tears. Stop the tortuous mire inside me, physical and emotional.
I am not unbreakable.
I am not stoic.
I am human and I bleed and I hurt more than is reasonable, and I can not stand it.
Endometriosis has beaten my medical team, and it will not let go of its grip on my emotions, my body, my entire fucking life. I have been ruled by my reproductive system since I was 12, at least since then.
I am adamant that I want at least both ovaries and fallopian tubes out. The quite exotic term for that surgery is "bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy", or BSO. Or BullShit Ovaries. Or Bye, Sod Off.
I have thought of little else for weeks, I know it's a drastic and HUGE decision, and I know it's not without risks but, as I've tried everything else that could be offered, what else is there?
Really, what else is there to be done?