C. U. N. T.

Next Tuesday.

BAM!

Lightning fast.

Ohh, NHS - and especially the staff in "my" "departments" - I do love you.

Here we go. Again. Cue treadmills...

Unforeseen circumventing.

Laziness/tiredness tells me to copy and paste what I've already told select people, with some editing here and there. So I shall.

Bloody ill people taking up hospital beds. Don't they know my ovary needs to be analysed?!

Because I'm such a hardnut on megadoses of morphine, I'll need a lot more than The Average Joe after my operation, which will cause a lot of pain. So I need a bed. And the weekend saw a lot of people needing beds. So, instead of sending me home in severe pain, they must keep me in overnight. But they can't. Because there is not one bed free. Anywhere in the hospital.

*Add Lansley and Hunt blame here*

So, my op has been postponed. AND I was first on the list! Sod's Law is working well today. Next thing will be a period. "LOL" at that thought. No, hang on - that's not funny. That is NOT funny.

I'm not angry in the least; frustrated, yes, but whaddya gunna do? A phonecall or letter will tell me when I'm due in. Again...

Thanks so very, very much for the good wishes, love, and kindness. All of it is so appreciated by all of us here.

Time for tea, stamps, Rosie cuddles, and very probably a sleep on the sofa. STAMPS AHOY, SAILOR!

Monday, Bloody Monday.

It's the finality of it all. The totally unquestionable end. It's the wholly different way of thinking, planning, living. Living. Living day-to-day without the fear of it coming back all too soon. The knowledge that it will not be coming back; it won't be "just" six months off, give or take other highly restrictive pains.

I don't have any love to give endometriosis, and I shan't miss my periods one tiny, weeny, neutrino-sized bit. The drastic change seems to be the thing I most think about: my being unable to have children despite not wanting any, anyway; the potential of being able to continue my Artwork without being forced to account for delays or spending weeks away from it; cancelling appointments at hospitals or dates with friends.

Essentially, having wants and being able to achieve them. Simple wants. Regular desires. Seeing friends, walking alone in the town shops, driving, travelling on buses and trains. Independence! Decades of hoping for it. Striving.

I'm trying not to be optimistic about possible results, while trying not to be too negative; I'm aiming for realism. I think I'm about there. I think.

A vision of me reborn, leaping and smiling, twirling in my flouncy new red dress like someone in a Special K ad ought not be imagined. By anyone. I perhaps have the hair for it but that's all.
Pain, I fully expect, will stay but at a (hopefully) lesser degree than currently. I expect, also, to keep this wretched fatigue, and all who sail in it. If my pains do decrease in severity, I hope, very much, that I shall be able to begin lowering the doses of morphine, with a view to eventually end up taking my old pal codeine, again.

But, first, I should concentrate on the operation which could change my life from the stressy bollocks it is now to something a bit less bollocky.

There's no bravery. There's no pity. There's nothing to be sorry about. Shit happens, and it just happened to hit my fan so hard it broke. So it has to go, along with old gurgly git here, The Right Ovary.

It's the undoubtedly emotional upheaval of it all which I keep coming back to. Even though this is my decision, it doesn't make these past few days any less difficult to get through, nevermind the day of the operation and the days after.
And, even if I did want motherhood in my future, could I put myself through this debilitation and the sickening terror of my periods for another five years, for example? I don't believe I could. I truly, honestly don't.

Science: sort it the fuck out. PLEASE.

The operation happens on this coming Monday, 29th July.