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.

The Future.

I didn't take enough tissue. As usual. The leaking of my Doctor Who water bottle was not helpful to my tissue situation. I knew I would cry. I typically do at those kind of  appointments, those gynaecologist chats, those highly emotional discussions with my consultant about my life and potential problems and treatments.

I have tried every kind of treatment offered and explained and favoured.
I have felt terrible with various side effects.
I have been at a total loss as to what to do, in a quicksand of panic to stop the pain.

Since before my teen years began, all of that has not been right. There has always been something wrong. For at least five years, and at most of those tearful hospital appointments, I have complained about the incessantly dull but intense aches and shocking sharps that occur in my lower right abdomen. After both previous laparoscopies, in which my messy and cystic right ovary was "cleaned up", those pains (unsurprisingly) eased enough for me not to be halted mid-speech or mid-breath. They returned, as I expected, but the temporary relief was a kind of magic.

This last appointment had its own mention of the problematic egg sack. So, although somewhat reluctantly, it seems my consultant has agreed that it JUST MIGHT be causing those aforementioned pains and, as such, that right ovary is due to be removed in what will be my third laparoscopy.

My endometrium will be treated to a zapping, courtesy of Nova Sure, and my left tube will be clipped.

I shall undergo a laparoscopic oophorectomy, laparoscopic sterilisation, and endometrial ablation. I shall have one ovary remaining. I shall be infertile. I shall be sterile. No baby shall emerge from my nether parts. I shall have no more periods.

Let me repeat that bit, chaps: no more periods. NO MORE PERIODS. NO MORE PERIODS. Using words, I simply can not convey my joy to you.

I don't want to have this surgery. I don't want to have these kinds of procedures done. The truth, though, is that I, like so very many more girls and woman, don't have the luxury of a thing like choice. Of course I've thought this through; I have thought of little else for the past few years of my life. How to stop the pain? How to stop the periods? How to prevent the shaking and sweating, the incoherence and immobility, the disabling and sickening burning inside, the nausea, insomnia, migraines, anger, helpless tears, and countless unfulfilled dreams - all because of periods, because of endometriosis.

As I type, that right bloody ovary is causing those aches. The ovulationesque pains. The pains not supposed to happen while the ovaries are "asleep" during the menopause-causing injections. I've been having other premenstual pains and symptoms, too. Which has been jolly spiffing. Jolly.

What if I have another mental breakdown about what I'll have done? What if I regret it all? What if what if what if etc. and so on. It's all so fucking hard to live and it never seems to get any fucking easier. WHEN will an all-round, actual, definite cure be discovered? WHEN? It must happen. It MUST.

In preparation for my forthcoming operation, I've already bought two pairs of comfortable trousers and big old lady knickers for my inevitable swellings - elasticated waistbands are a definite NO. I have many a suitably-sized cushion to put over my bloated belly and under the seatbelt for the journey home, slip on shoes, blanket, mints, a non-leaky bottle for water, puzzle books...

Now I know something useful is going to happen, albeit not yet when, I want it done. I just want it done, and over with, out, finished. I can't wait to see if I change my mind about treatment or children. I have to do what's right - or as right as it can be - for how I feel now. I can't keep waiting and hoping. I can't. I won't.

I expect pain to continue long after I've healed. I think it would be naïve of me to expect any kind of "cure". But how I live, how my days are spent, they have to be better than this. It all has to be. And when I have momentary doubts about it all, I remember the periods, the suicidal depression, the sallow-skinned shaking, the unspeakable terror of that internal pain. And then I feel sure, once again, I am doing the right thing.

The End.

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?

Chronic.

I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know how to stop feeling so dark and bitter and disappointed. These injections were meant to stop periods and help my emotional state. Periods have stopped but my mind isn't in a good way. And the pains haven't gone; they still do well at fucking up my plans and days.

Endometriosis still hurts, even when I'm having what is termed a "medical menopause". Will the pains be like this if I have the whole useless lot taken out? There might be no point in having it done.
What if the jabs aren't strong enough?
What if I can't have any other surgery to remove any cysts or implants?

Is it temporary, feeling so hideously heartless and soulless and literally carefree? I don't know. The combination of the same injections, and the same HRT, and my "good" anti-depressants isn't as good as I hoped.

I don't know if a life with no periods - the heavenly lack of period pain and messy blood and heavy-limbed exhaustion - is worth living if I feel this way for the foreseeable future. I don't know what to do.

I don't care like I used to, about people or animals or world events.

I don't have compassion like I used to.

I'm not in the least bit grateful for advice about what might help me, least of all when offered by someone with shit all knowledge of endometriosis and/or depression, and the illogical nature of each. And they wonder why I react in snappy or moody ways. "HORMONES??", I may say, sarcastically and with a look which could turn water to sulphuric acid. "There's no need to be like that", they may say. And then I imagine clumping them in the side of the head and saying, "I CAN'T. FUCKING. HELP. IT.", before summoning the determination to just... walk... away...

Cabin fever is also not helpful. I need to get away. Nowhere to get to. Can't even fucking walk properly some days, and my forgetfulness is getting worse every day.

I don't feel as affected as others clearly think I ought to, who then judge me for being so cold.

I don't think before I speak and, if I've proverbially brought someone down a proverbial peg or two, I feel disgracefully pleased that I did. I despise what I've become and don't know how to return to feeling the way I did.

I don't care that I've taken too many painkillers and that it might cause damage.

I don't care that my hot water bottle is too hot, or that my skin itches with rage, or that I have permanent burns.

I don't care when I seethe with unreasonable anger and disdain at what seems to my fucking annoyingly-depressed mind to be others' utter stupidity and/or incompetence, that they feel so negatively affected by my (re)actions.

I don't know how much longer I can cope. I don't know what to do.

I don't cry like I did when I might expect it to happen now. Even when I do cry, it feels forced, like it's simply not real.

I don't laugh like I did.

I don't love like I should.

Endometriosis > endometriosis treatment > depression > medication > no endometriosis treatment > endometriosis > endometriosis pain > depression > endometriosis treatment > depression > and so it goes.

I'm not asking for advice or fishing for kindness. I'm not expecting anything; I'm simply telling you a simple version of what I think is going on in my head.
None of it is simple to experience, and none of it is simple to manage.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to carry on like this.

Help.

I can not do a vast number of household chores in one day or even a week because of my stupid health problems. I do what I can when I can, and I never feel it is enough. There is always something to do and I am not always able to it. Some days, I feel I can do a lot more than others; the "other" days might involve me laying on the sofa unable to move. I never know. It's like Ovarian Bingo.

This is a very personal insight to how I see things in my home. My parents both have their own health problems - Mum's cancer bother and treatment, and Dad's agonising arthritic hip and back, for just a start. I don't happen to think doing all you are able to help the people who have done, and continue to do, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g they can for you is unreasonable. But what do I know?

NaPoWriMo 2013 - day 28, part bjtvggshb... I don't know...

Before we had a dishwasher,
I washed up the cups and pans,
And the plates and cutlery,
Monotonously cleaning by hand
Your crumbs and coffee stains,
The grease and the grime,
From your unhealthy foodstuffs,
Not my chosen way to spend my time.

I'm often hunched over the worktops,
Such heavy aches in my back,
But you never bother to ask how I am,
Lest you think about others - imagine that!
You see me stop in the kitchen,
Frozen, breathing heavily through my pain,
And, instead of filling my hot water bottle for me,
You simply sigh and complain
Because I'm in the way of the kettle
And you can't make your coffee
Or I'm selfish about the water
Because I'd filled it up for me.
I hoped the heat may help me relax
After walking up, then down, the stairs,
To fetch another load of washing
Before taking tablets to ease these pains I can't bear.

You most often see me sitting down,
So you seem to assume it's all I do,
But never seem to consider Mum's not alone in
Keeping the home free from the smell of cat poo
Or dirty floors, or limescale-free taps
So I must only ever eat codeine and sleep,
Despite every day SEEING me do housework,
The fatigue in me runs so painfully deep.

The clothes in the ironing pile,
Some more wrinkled than others,
But all must be pressed, and, invariably, it is I
Who stands for hours because you never bother
To offer to iron even only your own clothes
Because it "doesn't matter" if they are not done,
But if I don't do it, the only other person who can
Is the one who suffers enough already - our Mum.

Cleaning has to be done,
Things must always be cleaned,
Including windows and sinks,
Something you still don't seem to glean.
Cleaning your car does not count,
Huffing and puffing never occur
When the buckets and sponges make their appearances,
Why do you so rarely think of Mum? Think of HER.

The recyclable card and plastics
Must be washed and sorted.
They don't magically clean themselves
Have you never had a moment when you thought if
You did that something or other,
Which always seems hard work
You might save your mother some stress,
Rather than just walk on by? It is the behaviour of a berk.
After I've dusted the surfaces
And vacuumed the carpets,
I feel so achy and heavy,
And I've only just started!

Why must you wait to be asked
Before lending your reluctant hand?
Why will you not just offer to help?
Grow the fuck up and be a better man.

Stamps.

Colourful stickers
Have travelled the planet
On parcels that journeyed
From Moscow to Thanet.
Letters from sweethearts
Delivered and treasured
Because one little label
Enables such pleasure.

Scientists' discoveries,
Seasonal flowers,
War leaders' triumphs,
Hurriedly devoured
By passionate people
With a penchant for detail,
Searching for gold dust
In auctions and retail.

Millennium, Christmas,
The sovereign's sceptre,
New Zealand's history,
Olympiad spectres,
The owl and the pussycat,
Shakespeare and Dickens,
Aardman, The Gruffalo,
Oxen and chickens,
The greatest of Britons,
And Doctor Who,
I see immense beauty in stamps,
Perhaps you do, too.

Listen.

Upon opening the front door, I heard a robin singing while the soothing and warm evening air swirled around me and caused me to close my eyes and breathe in and just listen. An almost perfect evening atmosphere. The kind where a walk is necessary. The kind where sitting in the garden and just... sitting... and listening, really listening to the myriad sounds, is the best and easiest thing to do, like a kind of meditation.

I listened to the oddly comforting rhythmic clunking of trains on their tracks, the gentlest breeze whispering through the sparsely-leaved trees, a blackbird singing its cheerfully fluid song.

No coat. No blanket. (Yet.)

Just sitting.

And listening.

And (just) being.