Panic In A Room In Essex

Today is the day of Operation Remove Offending Article(s) - part 2. You my have noticed the pun in the title of this post relating to a song by The Smiths. I listened to them yesterday. Some hours later, I had a panic attack. I don't think it had anything to do with The Smiths. In fact, I know it didn't. Logic has nothing to do with panic attacks, as I've mentioned before. It is, unfortunately, one of those incredibly annoying ways my mind - and others' - finds to "deal" with current situations: me and my periods; Ma and her operation; and of course, any treatment she may need after. Many things.

Panic attacks are sneaky little buggers. They are many things, none of them good. When I become anxious, the first feeling I have is nausea. I abhor feeling sick, more so being sick. My mouth seems to forget it is a mouth and turns drier than the wit of Stephen Fry's Jeeves. My chest feels as if it will not be able to contain my heart, because it is pumping too fast by half. Maybe not literally by half but it is, perhaps, a LOT. Technical.
I am aware, completely, that these feelings are only a panic attack. Yet, when I am in the midst of utter... well, panic, it's the worst thing in the world. Clearly, though, it isn't. There are far more important and terrible occurrences in this world of ours. But at that moment when nausea seems to be turning into actual get-me-a-bucket-I'm-going-to-chunder (and too many times the reflex URGHH action happens. EW...), it seems so much more than that "fight or flight mechanism". I know what it means, I know what happens. I know to breathe slowly and deeply and all that. But still it happens. And if when it does, I hate it. And after, I think what an idiot I've been for getting like that. Last night, though, as has happened so many times before, it seemed to start before I'd woken up, at about 3am. It's like I wake into it.

This massive day and situation is happening to my Ma and to us and the day carries on; the window cleaner still cleans windows, the postman still delivers (when I was in the bathroom - typically, there was a packet which needed to be signed for), the cats still throw up and I still have to clear it up. And the British Gas person - hereon known as BGP - will still do their duties between the times of 12 noon and 6pm. Apparently.
When I was in the bathroom, I had to have a cold wash, as the water and heating had been off since about 11am. At that time, my Ma gathered her final accoutrements for her stay in hospital. And just several minutes later, it was time for Pa to take Ma to the hospital. Hugs, kisses, "don't worry"s filled those last few seconds before they left. My brother, J, and I stood at either end of the front room window, like bookends, waving to our wonderful Ma as our equally wonderful Pa drove them both away. J went out of the house to the garage and there was such unnerving, uneasy quiet. The only sound was the clock in the hall, ticking. The pigeons on the roof at the bottom of our garden carry on courting, the squirrels in the loft carry on waking me up at 6am with a ridiculous amount of noise (one is pregnant), presumably making a drey. I very much hope that the foundations of their new home is not made up of the innards of my treasured Zipper Cat. Maybe they're trying on his rollerskates. Perhaps that's why there's so much noise up there.

It is now just past 3pm and the BGP is here. I know, as I type, Ma is undergoing surgery to remove the offending article(s). I'm listening to Kingdom Of Rust by doves. It is an immense album. Again, they manage to make me shiver with delight and awe. They take me to a place of joy and anticipation and stir emotions and thrill me so utterly, as no other band does. Except maybe elbow. They are pretty prodigious, as well. And The Beach Boys. But of the recent, British bands, doves do it for me.

But, as much as I am transported to this other place of wonder, I'm still sat on my own in the living room (there are various cats in here, too but not humans), I'm so tired from lack of (decent) sleep, with growing period/kidney/gut pains, Pa is overseeing the BGP and his work and J is doing something in the garden. All I can think about is my Mum. My lovely, beautiful Mum.

Just call me Mrs. Bean...

Inevitably, the clumsiness, insomnia, the bitching, the forgetfulness, the lack of appetite et al have all returned with a sneaky vengeance. I dropped my deodorant in the sink of water, couldn't manage to place hairpins on the shelf - twice, and dropped a china cat bowl in the sink, nearly breaking it and the other one. (The cat bowl is china, not the cat, in case you were wondering.) I've been swearing profusely at everything, nothing and at the television and some of its astonishingly irritating "presenters", which is ironic in my view, as their appearances are invariably less than decent. I'm a bitch again, I told you. I've been berating "Art", bitter at the creators' success when I think little or less of what has been made. I think my Artwork is far better. Obviously. I insult the cats for not moving out of my way, for just sitting there. There. Where I need to go. MOVE. You want to go out? You don't? Well don't scratch the fucking door. Stop it. Out. Food? Here's your food. Oh don't be so bloody fussy.

Poor sods. It's not their fault this (hopefully only) temporarily deranged bint isn't sure of why the hell she was going that way in the first instance. It's not their fault he doesn't want Whiskas Whitefish now when he couldn't eat it fast enough that morning. No, wait... whatever, it pisses me right off. It's plainly not a situation whereby swearing will solve a problem. It doesn't even make me feel better, I just get annoyed with myself for being so pathetic and angered by a beautiful animal, whom I adore completely. Apart from the door-scratching and fussy eating.

My Ma has noticed - as have I - that the really rather unpleasant premenstrual look has also reappeared. It's a strange occurrence: I look more pale than usual (I'm already whiter than white...); the dark (Jewishish) circles under my eyes are more noticeable; my gait is slightly different, more like the BWAT of previous months; my eyes are heavy, glazed, the result of lack of sleep and/or broken sleep; my face is sullen, almost frowning most of the time.

I thought, possibly stupidly, that I wouldn't feel this way for at least three weeks. I thought I'd have a longer break from this crap. I know I'm not the only one who has these feelings, these symptoms, this belief (albeit transient) about oneself of uselessness. And then I realise that it is nearly three weeks since Mirena left.

I am not drinking more water.
I have not started yoga, again. Still. Again.
I have not managed to rise from sleepiness at a "decent" time.
I have, though, got the amassed-over-several-months ironing peak to a reasonable height. Almost amusingly, I have done so much of it over the weekend that my right shoulder is now suffering rather a lot. It really hurts. Ow. It was a brilliant plan, to iron as much as I could BUT I forgot how many clothes I have. I have actually run out of space for my clothes. Only a few pairs of jeans and trousers but so. many. tops. I love clothes. I just do.


And, just when I thought I couldn't feel even slightly better today, on Twitter a favourite tweeter - and dish - mentioned something about songs, I mentioned Brian Wilson in return and now I have the GLORY and LOVE and UNSPEAKABLE BEAUTY of Pet Sounds playing, making me smile and shiver with delight. Very few bands/musicians can do this to me: doves are the other one of which I immediately think. I LOVE MUSIC. And I love my cat...s...

More pills than Boots

It's strange how some people do not know what to say. They are literally lost for words. It's sort of nice but also makes me want to tell them, "It's OK. I know what you're trying to say". And then I want to gently hold their hand and just assure them with two simple but honest words: "I know". More flowers. Tulips. Very lovely they are, too. I think the cats know something is afoot. It's actually soon to be not a breast but anyway, I'm sure they know. Wallace just likes sitting on my left arm, simultaneously obscuring my view of the laptop keyboard and screen with his ears and removing any feeling from said limb. And attempting to puncture my stomach. With pointy feet.

Some people have also done that brilliant barely-speaking-the-words thing, where they overdo the mouthing of words. Specifically, they apply this to the words "breast cancer" and "mastectomy". Like Peter Kay's Nan when she said "lesbian". Or, rather didn't say it.
I think people don't say the words because then it's like it's not real... actually, no, I don't think it's that; perhaps, it is more that if you say it quietly or mouth it, it's less upsetting. But, the truth for us (and in my mind at least), is that it isn't beneficial because it sort of feels as if they are trying to protect Ma from the cancer and that's not possible, presently. One wouldn't think, looking at her, that there is anything wrong with her. There is, but there isn't. She's still walking around, she can drive, she can laugh and eat and sleep and hug and hold.

In a (vague) way, it's like depression and periods and the like, whereby there is a genuine problem but it happens to not be visible. There was no lump to indicate a problem with my Ma, nor did she feel unwell. She had a routine mammogram and that picked up several tiny white dots which looked like microcalcifications. But, most likely, you can't feel it, you can't see it, and if left undetected, as they say, it will spread and it WILL, very probably, be fucking dangerous. I'm sure "they" don't say "fucking dangerous". I just put that in...

I had to see my GP today, to get my next batch of tablets - Citalopram, Co-dydramol, Tranexamic acid, Keral... and, because I'm on Citalopram and shall be taking Keral, there is an increased risk of bleeding of the stomach. So I have to have an antacid to counteract the effects of those two battling against each other. Which is a bit annoying, really. And they're capsules, the antacids. I'm even worse with capsules than with tablets. They float! Agh. I'll take them, of course I'll take them... But yes, back to my GP. I mentioned that I was scared and frightened, about the situation and also for my Mum. I think it's reasonable to feel those emotions when you know something like "this" is happening to someone for whom you would do anything. GP said - in an entirely sensible but slightly annoying-to-me-so-please-wait-until-I-finish-what-I-was-trying-to-say way - my feeling scared and such was no help to Ma, I need to be strong for her. I agree. BUT, what I was trying to say was this: I was empathising with her, not pitying myself in this situation. I cried, of course I cried: she's my Mum and what will happen to her next week will no doubt be traumatic and indeed painful. But I felt sad for her, not for me. For her. And I'm not "moping about", thank-you very much, doc. I'm really arsing well tired but I'm not moping. I have been mopping, though. I cleaned the kitchen and utility room floors.

But I don't think I do the feeling-sorry-for-myself thing. I did it for a long time, years ago, in my darkest, most horrifically depressed days and I felt no better. Life is shit sometimes, and when it's good or astonishingly marvellous, you appreciate it. We - all four of us - are beginning to learn about new bras and prostheses and life after Operation Remove Offending Article(s). Again, I say "we" as we are a family and a close one. This IS The Bullshit. And it and it alone can fuck right off because it is not welcome here. Or there. Or under there. Or up there. Or down there...

Swearing, tmesis -style...

Well. I'm not sure I know what to say. My Mum still has cancer. My Mum... has cancer. This is also commonly known as The Bullshit. I can not befuckinglieve that is true. After the operation to remove what was thought only to be DCIS along with the "safety margin", the latter was analysed by a pathologist and the result was delivered like a punch in the face by Ali. They found more cancer, an aggressive type, more serious than DCIS, which is a kind of restrained fiend. Surgery by way of mastectomy is the best and most obvious option, as what they found is only in what they took away for testing, so it could be in any part of the rest of the tissue. The fucker! Leave my Mum alone. I am not, of course, suggesting that my Mum, my Mum should be exempt from cancer aka The Bullshit. No-one in this world, on this, at times wonderful, Earth of ours, is any better or so incredible that they shouln't be immune to some illness or disease that anyone else could contract or develop. It's not that she is my Mum, but that she is my Mum. I know there is nothing I can say or do to help it become less frightening or bewildering for any of us - Ma, Pa and my brother, J. But I would do anything to help her, to stop her hurting. ANYTHING. And now, I can't. I can do some housework and clean and do the ironing but...

There is nothing anyone can say. That's why, I think, there have been so many calls and texts, again and visits. Like before, just three weeks ago, we had so many deliveries of flowers, we ran out of vases, we ran out of space for the "Thinking of You" and "Get Well Soon" cards. People don't know what to say. But we think we know what they mean.

If you know my Mum, you'll know she adores flowers so they make her smile when she sees and smells them. And that's worth every penny in my wallet. Although, the enormous and, frankly, staggering sum of £4 I actually have in my wallet wouldn't buy much more than a bunch from Morrisons. That's not a bad thing. They do have quite nice flowers in there. But I've had the more-for-yer-money, FairTrade or other such prettily presented bouquets delivered for my Ma lately, for helping me post-Mirena-fitting, for Mothering Sunday and for the first instance of The Bullshit. God, I love the internet, sometimes.

I jokingly mentioned on Monday - when we found out what was going to happen next - that we'd have to sort out the past-it flowers in those many vases from the first operation: the lumpectomy. (I've been a bit off-colour lately. And Ma still can't lift her arm up fully yet or lift more than the equivalent of a light cat - Cyril.) The flowers that arrived today came in a vase. And we (Mum bought, but I was with her in our favourite local charity shop) bought two new vases. I think we may be needing them. Mum keeps wondering why so many people are asking how she is, why so many people send flowers and cards and visit her to see if there's anything they can do. Because they care, because she is wonderful.

It's been a thought and fear in each of our minds since Mum's initial diagnosis, that that possible and ultimately shocking shift from "relatively harmless" cancer to hopefully not relevant to my Mum, my brother's Mum, my Dad's wife could happen to her. And, indeed, would happen to her. While it's in its early stages, it does still mean that she. has. cancer... I don't know how long it will take for any of us to realise or understand it. I don't know if we ever will. I know there are no rules about how to feel or what to feel or when to feel. I believe anything and everything each of us feels is completely "OK". I know this because I've been told. Yes, that is a little harsh, perhaps but already, I'm fed up with talking and thinking about it, so how the hell does she feel? SHIT. Bullshit, if you will.

The weeks and months to come will be, for my Ma, full of pain, both physically and emotionally. And while this is, essentially, a post about our current The Bullshit situation - and it is we, for we are a family, together, through hell and joy - my (yes, still about me, somewhere) periods threaten to get in the way of my looking after Mum. What if these new tablets don't work? Now, more than ever, I feel, this new medication cocktail has to work, it has to. I keep feeling sick at the thought of what might happen. I bloody hate feeling sick. I hate cancer aka The Bullshit. I hate depression. I hate my periods. I hate racism and anti-semitism and abuse. And I don't, generally, do hate. But obviously I do. But not for actions and matters that don't merit those strong feelings.

Fear and anger and confusion and frustration and pity. I don't like pity. But I feel it. For my Mum. She'll have part of her taken away which makes her, partly at least, who she is and what she is - a woman. I feel so sorry (agh bloody word) that she'll have to go through this horrible experience because nature went a bit wrong. Tears are falling now, as I type this and talk (via facebook) to a friend whose Mum died from cancer and it makes me so fucking angry that I can't do or say anything to help him, or anyone who has to deal with this, The Bullshit. And now I can't breathe through my nose and my face is redder than a very red thing, indeed. Olbas Oil, you are my friend...

The Menses Monopoly (contains talk of PERIODS)

Following my Mirena Removal Ceremony (no party when I got home, though), I'm almost viewing this new found freedom as a new start. I'd made a list, albeit short, in my head of feats that were wholly achievable:-

- I shall drink more water.
- I shall embark on a yoga regime i.e. I'll do more than I do now, which is none. Since Mirena, my limbs seemed to have been replaced with dried out timber.
- I shall try (extremely hard) to get up at a "good" time: by 9:30am - believe me when I say this is a good time.
- I shall aim to prevent the accumulated items of clothing that need ironing at a height of no more than 2 feet.


At least, I thought I'd be doing those things by now, Sunday. But I am not. Though, yesterday I did more than in the last month, collectively. Presently, I feel so depleted of enthusiasm and oomph, even I, with my neurotic adoration of the English language, can not explain how tired I feel.

And of course, periods, will not always allow for the in-my-head list to be carried out. As I type, I'm still bleeding post-Mirena and still have some pains. Dammit Janet. I know some of you will know how it feels when you get that period indicator, that "Oh no... it's nearly here" feeling. But when I feel all right, I shall try to do all I can. Again. Not just to help my Ma but because it's good (dammit) for me to have a vague routine. Agh, do I not like that word: routine. Why did I just type it again if I dislike it so? On the assumption that the new tablets don't work - that's not pessimism but realism: I've been let down too many times after believing the hype of painkillers - I know I'll have, between proper periods, about four or 5 days either side of the mid-miniperiods. Potentially, then, as before, about ten days out of 5 weeks, let's suppose. Well, I'll suppose. I'll type and you can read...

Without medication, hell lasts about 10 days. With, it's 9 days. Whoo hoo. I'm not ungrateful for their help, just... tired. Generally. Often. The first day is light. But very painful and draining and heavy-in-the-everything and so, so horrible. The second proper day is the first heavy day, and the third and fourth days are the most painful, which translates as: I am disabled by horrific pains for at least three days and lovingly cared for by my beautiful Ma. She brings me my tablets (often placing them in my mouth because I can't even do that for myself), orange juice (Hello, I'm Lucy, I'm 27 and I'm the world's most useless tablet taker), hot water bottle, all I need to get by. She places my blanket over me to keep me warm so I can sleep if I need to, which is often at those times. And she stays with me when I feel I just. can't. cope. with it, when the agony is beyond reasonable, when I don't know what to do, when it should be more than a person can manage without passing out.

I usually stay on the sofa. We have a downstairs toilet - badly, cheaply, wonkily decorated in 1970s brown tiles - yes, it is as awful as it sounds. Actually, I don't think, unless you've seen it, that you can imagine how bad the tile work is. It's utterly dreadful. Downstairs is better than upstairs because upstairs is immediately at the top of the stairs and falling down those stairs is not something I wish to do. Ever. Unsteady + top of stairs = stay downstairs on sofa. Easy equation.

On the fourth day I can walk on my own! I know, I know, I shouldn't brag. Still akin to a duck with haemorroids, though, but an improvement all the same. A bird with arse trouble, if you will. Bearing in mind the amount of codeine I have to take in the days before and while I have a period, this is not an entirely untrue analogy.
And on day 6 or 7 of bleeding, I am virtually me again. Which is nice. But the then very mild indeed period pains change to pelvic pain. So then, I step down from taking co-dydramol (10/500mg) to take co-codamol (8/500mg). Day 11 is usually clear, then day 13 or 14 of my pattern (I refrain from using the term "cycle") is when I start bleeding again. Pelvic pain continues for a week or so. Maybe 2 weeks. Here's the fun part: I might then bleed for 3 days, have 2 days off then bleed again for 8 days. Or, after period, 5 clear days, 6 bleeding, 1 off, and back again for 7 days. Take your pick! I should start a lottery or bingo. Ah now. IDEA. No prize, just the knowledge that you know more about my body than I do.

When that mid-bleed finishes, I might be clear for a week or for 3, 12 days or 19. I have no idea. But what I do know is this: before I have finished the mid-bleed, I'm already premenstrual for the next proper period. You may know the symptoms: dizzy (thanks vertigo. Not the film, the condition. The film's brilliant.); headaches; waning appetite; frightening anger, sometimes; insomnia; my poor, tiny bust hurts like I've been kicked with steel toe-capped boots... Men - you lucky bastards. I have to wear a bra in bed. That old M&S one, actually... and like ALL of that is not bad enough - and it is - the proper period pains I get start between 3 days and 2 weeks before the bloody thing even arrives, if you pardon the pun.

And then it all starts - predictably and unpredictably - again. And so it goes on and on and on. If I'm very lucky I might "only" be removed from human living for a couple of days. At the worst, the doctor (not THE Doctor, unfortunately) or ambulance is that close *does thing with fingers to demonstrate closeness of situation arising* to being called to help... me... I wouldn't call, I can barely breathe at those times. As my cousin said the other day, I'm back to square one, which, in blistering honesty, is a fucking terrifying place to be. BUT as loathe as I am to say it, I'd rather be here than back there, at "Mirena says do not pass go". Or "Mirena says don't get up". Or is that Simon says? At least I know what square one is and what it means. I've been here before, I know this game. I think. Now where's that little Scottie dog...

The Cedar Room

Considering very little has happened this week, I feel I've written typed an awful lot about it. I fear I'm in danger of posting too many blog entries and making the previous examples sort of useless. But what happened today has been so normal and I forgot how much I missed it. The seemingly banal task of walking to the shops to post a parcel to my very lovely newest cousin and his older brother, who is equally lovely, was a joy: by the church there are hyacinths and pansies in full bloom looking delightful, with the former smelling so good; trees blossoming; cars driving by!; rain on the ground in puddle form; shops! There are shops! I bought a (silly hexagonal) tube of Smarties and some new talc (really. I ran out of the Yardley Rose one. Really. Yardley talc is good. Don't knock it, philistine) from my favourite sells-nearly-everything chemist.

After yesterday's frankly monumental achievement at the hospital, I feel I can jump and reach the stars! Except, more oxygen. And heat. And different gravity. And stuff... but the change in me and my demeanour is immense: I got dressed. Not just comfortable "jog pants", vest and chunky comfy cardi, but actual clothes. I wore jeans. And - I swear to you this is true - while deciding what to wear for the top half (almost always jeans, sometimes other types of trouser) and going through the clothes on hangers on my wardrobe door, what happened? A moth flew out. A MOTH. How bemusingly brilliant is that? I mean, not if it's eaten my clothes but... a moth? Hasn't been that long, has it?

I have a lot of clothes. It's not that I'm a clothoholic or that I never had anything or very little as a child: we had enough, but not spoiled as children, we know that earning money and "things" do not come easily to you and that you must work hard to earn money, we know about appreciating things and all that. I just really like clothes. I have a few pairs of trainers. I have "some" skirts. Likewise pairs of jeans. And probably far too many tops. Fabrics, textures, patterns, beads, "hang"... I love the fact that there are so many different types of top to be had. It's been so long since I wore those lovely, lovely clothes. A lot of the familia's clothes (and even more of mine) are in the ironing pile. My job, the ironing. It's like my part of the housekeeping, because I don't work. And I give Ma and Pa money from the income support I get, which is, obviously, entirely fair. I don't like claiming benefits. But I can't work, currently and as a person in my own right, aside from living with my parents and not paying bills and tax (charities and LL: I'm so sorry I can't tick that box, I want to but can't) I'm "entitled" to money so...

I'm saving it for the recommencement of driving lessons. And then for my driving test. And then for my CAR. I will buy a car. One day. I think I'd quite like a bit of a rubbish first car. Like an iffy coloured, metallic-finished N-reg Fiesta. But then my anti-anti-semitic conscience says NO!! Don't buy Fords, Lu. Shame. Natty little cars. A to B cars. MY CARS. Well, CAR. I shan't be greedy. I'm SO excited about having lessons again. Hope my theory result hasn't run out *shockface* because I got 35/35 on the questions. Damned good going, Lu! Oh yeah...


I feel tired today, after the walk, and after yesterday, too. My womb is confused: it's bleeding again (...eww. It's true. I've said it's all true ha...) and hurting a bit, so I've had more Ponstan and co-dydramol but I reckon it'll be that way for a few days, before it settles. But that's fine. Poor thing's got so used to trying to expel it every fucking day and now it's gone, it's like it's unsure what to do now. Relax, man. Relax... For me, for now, or at least for the next few days, I think it'll be gentle ironing, tea making and slagging down the people on Dickinson's Real Deal who sell their "lovely" grandmother's engagement ring so they can go on holiday. The bitchiness is back. And it's gooood... (in a non-mean kind of way. Sort of...)

What a difference a splay makes.

I was wrong. Doesn't happen often. Like Peter Griffin being right. But I was wrong. I am now a post-it. I am not, though, yellow, nor am I sticky on a thin strip, on one side. The medical man I saw at hospital this morning was the same medical man who fitted my Mirena under general anaesthetic all that time ago on Thursday 8th January of this year, 2009. He agreed with me that the pain was not going to improve, and that, instead of leaving it another two or 3 months to see if it settles and needing, therefore, to continue the codeine intake, the best option was to "whip it out", as Award-Winning Consultant said last time. My poor womb. It was only trying to protect me, really: a foreign object in there? Which is not a foetus? Of course it would try to rid the body of it. I was just a bit unlucky that the pains I had were severe and very restrictive on my daily life.

The option for the Nice Medical Man to dive in there and remove it in a few minutes' time was a bit daunting. I knew it was the very best and most obvious thing to do but given that certain other examinations and such have been more than very uncomfortable, I wasn't quick to say, "Oh all right, then" with vim. Logic doesn't ever really have a part to play in anxiety and depressive issues but this, this was purely, completely fear of important parts hurting after past medical experiences and the trauma which followed. I still maintain my minibouts of depression were brought on, not by the hormone, but by the frustration and anger at what Mirena was doing to me and how it was affecting me.

With my wonderful Ma to my left, NMM to my right (I'm not going into "here I am, stuck in the middle...") I decided to go fer it. I was SO nervous about the impending ARGHH. So, to the "delivery room" and off with the boots (I LOVE CONVERSE BOOTS. I want a red pair. And a blue pair.), kept socks on, obviously, and then the jeans came off. Not worn those figure-hugging darlings for SO. LONG. I love those jeans. Truly. They are kind to my behind. Yeahhh... and the rest = butt-ugly nude from waist down. Drafty.

So, yes, gown on, sit on the seat-thing, put a leg in each rest (so elegant) and, just for good measure, a nurse and a trainee girl doctor for company and..... oh, that feels uncomfortable, a bit of grabbing around in there and then *shocked/relieved face* "You bastard", I said. "Not you! She means that!" my Ma hurriedly said. And I did mean Mirena: I couldn't possibly, at that moment, think NMM anything less than magnificent for being gentle as he said he would be and for performing the deed out without me even really feeling it leaving. Mirena was OUT!! And relaaaax...

Relief isn't the word for it. I was so smiley and was grinning, I wished the lovely ladies on reception a wonderful day, chuckled to myself, laughed in the car park, and rested a bit in the car on the way home. A late night and a very early morning (2am: insomnia), bad sleep (and again and nerves, too) and an early morning (7:49am) allowed my conscience to rest awhile. And, since I got back, I've cleared the kitchen, fed three cats their own food at least twice each, cleaned the cats' trays, done this blog, and made several cups of tea almost without effort. It's brilliant! I'm aware there is a significant psychological factor in this: that "weight off the sholders" feeling. But since Mirena's first day in its new home, I'd felt a horrible stiff, aching-to-the-bones heaviness, a bit like the premenstrual lead-weights-in-the-soles-of-your-feet-and-all-the-way-up-to-the-top-of-your-head feeling. But all the time. That's gone, now. Huzzah!!

And like that's not enough for a good day, I've had some lovely, lovely comments about my blog. People read it! YOU, yes you there: YOU read it. Or at least, this part. THANK-YOU, heartfeltedly... is that a word? Should be, if not...


So, hormone treatments, for the next few months, at least, are out of the equation. It's a shame it seems they may never be an option for me. Regarding Mirena, my womb hadn't responded as it "should" have or as was expected; the lining hadn't thinned. And, as much I fear my periods and (still) hope they'll improve, equally, I can look forward to wearing my jeans again and my new pair from eBay, dusting (oh!), vacuuming without collapsing, helplessly, on to the floor, a wee bit of gardening, ARTWORK!! I can "do" art again and ohh I have missed it so much... SO. MUCH. For now, though: facebook and just, y'know... stuff......