November 20, 2018November 20, 2018 by ChronicWriter

Recent Hurdle

(Note: This could be distressing, caution advised)

That morning started like any other morning.

Up at 7am, dressed and out the door by 8:15am. I felt good. So good, I had heels on.

As I made the commute to work, I sang my heart out. Singing along to my Disney playlist, I was happy.

About 10 minutes away from the office, I felt a strange twinge in my side. With my insides being as angry as they are, god knows this wasn’t anything new. However, the severity of the pain and the rapid onset was. How I made it to the office, I’ll never know, I can’t remember the rest of the drive. Something was very wrong.

I abandoned my car just outside the building, fearing I wouldn’t be able to walk the distance from the car park. I could barely walk. It took all my strength to stay standing. The pain was so intense I had to hunch over, taking slow steps, like an old lady.

I could hardly breathe.

I stumbled into the building, the first to arrive, I clutched the walls as I staggered to the bathroom. How is it possible to feel like I was going to be sick, pass out and scream all at once? What was happening?

This agonising pain increased from 1-10 in just twenty minutes. I didn’t have time to reach for my rescue meds, to apply a heat pad, to do anything. I was alone & scared. Shaking, I dialled my husband’s number. Knowing he would be busy at work, I held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain.

Between sobs, I cried for the receptionist to pass the phone to my husband.

In all the time I have been struggling with Endometriosis and pain flares, this was the only time where I’ve made a conscious decision to call an ambulance.

Nick reassured me, told me to call 999. I did.

As I was on the phone to the emergency services, my manager walked in. She took one look at me and took over. She will never know how grateful I am that she was there, with me, that day. I laid my head on the desk, crumpled in pain, trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious.

I felt like I was dying. The pain was so bad. Something was very, very wrong.

Three calls later, we were told help was on the way. It felt like it would never come. Just when I thought I couldn’t hold on, Jade said, “Oh! They’re here now.”

The sigh of relief I released was immense. In that second, I thanked everything that they made it.

Like angels, the paramedics swooped in and immediately took over. They took one look at me and hooked me up to Gas & Air. I then had lots of stickies on, that told them how my heart was doing. It felt like it was aching.

‘Why is this happening? Again?’

I had to shuffle to the ambulance, a paramedic by my sides, sucking on the gas.

It was all hazy as I drifted in and out of pain. I remember Jade wishing me well, giving me my bag and then we were on the way to the hospital.

I laid on the gurney, unable to straighten my legs out. It was like my body instinctively knew to curl into itself, to guard against pain.

I winced against the jerky movements of the ambulance as it stopped and reversed at the hospital. And again I was awash with relief as the ambulance driver opened the doors and I heard, “Is this your husband?”

I lifted my head and our eyes locked. And I cried. I knew that I could collapse because I knew I could lean on Nick, that he would watch out for me and pick me up again.

I was wheeled into A&E and I braced myself for the onslaught of questions…

“What’s your name? Date of birth? What’s happened Aimee? How is your pain now?”

It was the same routine, just a new hospital and new faces. These doctors didn’t know me.

I think every woman with Endometriosis struggles with new doctors, reliving all the traumas, the medical history and desperately trying to make the professionals see how bad the pain is, what it’s like and that it’s not all in your head.

The notion that I might not be taken seriously and discharged is always a very real fear, in any hospital visit.

Luckily, something was shining down on me. I was blessed with a very understanding doctor who could read the pain written all over my face. She overruled other doctors and some less-empathising members of the nursing staff, she held my hand as I cried and rolled around the bed in pain.

She heard my “Please. Please help me.” and answered…

with morphine.

There’s always a question that I dread, not because the doctors have to ask it, but because I have to answer. “Aimee, could you be pregnant?”

Something squeezes around my heart each time, I answer in the negative.

Despite my constant rambling about previous surgeries and cysts and MRI results and ovulation pain stories and pain killer lists, there still seemed to be a lot of confusion about what was actually happening to me.

Some theories were:

Ectopic pregnancy
Appendicitis
Pelvic Inflammatory Disease
Some sort of infection

All theories that I’ve heard before, bouncing around my head. Theories that have all been proven wrong. This was my Endometriosis.

The doctors, thorough as they were, insisted on an Ultrasound scan and an X-Ray.

By this point, I had been given paracetamol, a diclofenac suppository and a whole lotta morphine, along with the two tramadol I had taken myself whilst still at work. I know I sound like a drug addict. But that’s just how bad the pain was. I can’t even describe it now, like I’ve blocked it out.

I could barely stand still for the chest X-Ray. I held onto the machine, my legs shaking, biting my lip to keep from crying out. It was all too familiar, all too much. I lowered myself back onto the gurney. The Radiologist hurrying to make a call to the Ultrasound department. She managed to squeeze me in, luckily. That meant that I wouldn’t have to wait for 7 hours for a scan.

I was taken back to A&E before being taken to the ward. I would be admitted. I was shown to a bed, and waited as my husband went to the car to collect my overnight bag (as practised as we are at this, he knew I would need it).

While I drifted in and out of restless sleep, the drugs starting to overpower my senses, the doctor came. I struggled through an internal exam, I gritted my teeth against the dismissal of my accounts. The gynaecologist told me everything would be fine, told me it wasn’t a problem with my cysts, or my Endometriosis. I couldn’t understand what else it could be. Dazed, I returned to my bed, texted my husband, who quickly returned and wanted to speak with the doctor.

She retracted her original comments, telling Nick she suspected the Endometriosis was the culprit, along with an internal infection. I was filled with antibiotics; a large dose via IV and 2 lots of oral antibiotics. What had caused the infection?

I will never know.

I was discharged the next day, after being told I should have plenty of medication and pain relief at home and should therefore be able to manage the pain. I was ensured that things should start to improve now I was on the antibiotics.

I doubt that there was ever any infection.

When I had failed to ovulate after stopping the zoladex injections, my doctor prescribed me Clomid. This drug works by stimulating the ovaries, to encourage ovulation. I believe that the Clomid irritated my ovary (and in turn, the attached cyst), increased its size, which then aggravated my Endometriosis and caused the flare up. The fluid in my pelvis, could have been just another consequence of this.

And following a tense few weeks, waiting for a hospital appointment, my Gynaecology specialist confirmed this… Right before he offered me a ‘final’ solution.

I think that’s enough offloading for now, don’t you? Just know that I am incredibly appreciative of all the support and light I have received, and I will be alright in the end – after all this will only be a small part of my journey.

October 13, 2017October 13, 2017 by ChronicWriter

Out of the frying pan?

*DING DING DING* Round Two!

As a woman, I am no stranger to doing things I don’t want to do. But as a woman with endometriosis, I am also no stranger to pain or discomfort. So when I was told I needed to have monthly hormone injections again as part of my treatment to try and get this condition under control, I should accept it easily, shouldn’t I?

No.

There is not a single part of me that wants to accept this treatment. Not a single ounce of me that is OK with it.

In April, following 2 surgeries and almost a year after we decided to start trying to conceive, my consultant told me I should go back on the zoladex injections. I was devastated. It was proving too difficult to manage the pain and the ‘trying’ part of conception was near impossible with the levels of pain I was experiencing. I was in bed every day, my GP had introduced a pain patch and periods were horrendous. And the cherry on the cake? I’d still not managed to conceive.

But I was doing all the right things; I was taking the vitamins, I had the ovulation sticks and the fertility tracker and I was even taking my temperature to monitor my cycle. Still- nothing.

Reluctantly, I agreed to go back on the menopause-inducing drug.

“What’s it like? It’s like being impaled by a javelin and expected to be grateful for it!”

The night before the first injection I sobbed. It was so unfair. The resentment welled up inside me until it spilled out in fat, hot tears. And those tears fell in abandon that first month. I have a hard time swallowing them, even now.

It wasn’t the pain of the injection, it wasn’t even the nasty side effects or the fact that it would 100% prevent conception. My resentment lied in the treatment itself. The fact that I was given no alternative; it was either this injection or agony every day. Rock meet hard place. Neither was what I wanted. I felt like an animal, backed into a corner. Have you ever had to do something everything inside you rejected?

I’ve never felt so out-of-control of my own life, of what happens to my body. And the doctors never ask what I want! Like this was the only option and I should be happy about it.

No.

And worse, when I spoke about it, about my feelings and how much I hated this treatment, some responses was one of indifference: “Well, which would you rather have? Agony, pain and being in bed every day or an injection and a few hot flashes?”

NEITHER! Is that too much to ask?

I know from the outside it looks like a ‘done-deal’, a no-brainer. I rebel against everything about it.

Today, I have had my 4^th injection of this cycle. Last time, August, I upped my dose from a 3.75 (monthly) injection to a 10.8 (3-monthly) injection. The difference? It’s a much bigger needle, but one stab lasts 3 months. I decided this would be an ‘easier’ option when I started to have panic attacks prior to the injection due dates and appointments.

I am 7 months into this cycle. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a long, long time, I feel exhausted; mentally and physically. The hot-flashes are enough to cause spontaneous combustion and my mood swings are enough to give me (and my husband) whiplash. I don’t even get any relief using HRT as I had to stop it after it caused chest pain and SVT.

But, I haven’t had a period in 7 months and the endo pain has abated. And I am so thankful of that.

August 17, 2017August 21, 2017 by ChronicWriter

Losing my MRI-virginity

In all the time that I have been trying to cope with the onslaught of Endometriosis and its painful symptoms, I had never had an MRI. Heard about them, wondered why I was never offered one, but never actually had one. I know, shocker.

Well that changed.

I was sent to see a bowel specialist at the request of my gynaecologist after he found my bowel had fused to my womb and my Pouch of Douglas (Google it) had been completely obliterated by adhesions.

My Bowel Guy ordered an MRI scan. He also put me on a list for a sigmoidoscopy – which is just code for Colonoscopy but they don’t want you to get all freaked out in the room, so you just freak out at home in front of your laptop screen.

Anyway- an MRI. I’d seen them on tele and I had spoken to people who have had them in the past. Isn’t it funny? As soon as you mention a medical thing, people (sometimes I don’t even know them!) are like “Yes, I had one of them for my hip/liver/pelvis” or “it was no problem, it’ll be alright!” I know their hearts are in the right place and they have the best intentions but it can be incredibly overwhelming.

My MRI was scheduled for a Sunday evening at 19:40pm. I thought this was a bizarre time, on a Sunday. But as I was going to a city hospital I just assumed they ran things differently in the Big City.

As my husband and I meandered through the hospital corridors following (and sometimes losing) the blue line, we finally found the radiology department. The radiology suites were up a few flights upstairs; something I wasn’t quite prepared for and was glad for the long sit down when I reached the summit.

My letter said to report to the radiology reception desk when I arrived. So, there I stood, letter in hand, a blank expression on my face as I stared at a dark, closed reception area. The waiting area looked like it needed a lick of paint and boasted some pretty sad rows of seating, the plastic kind that you had at primary school.

Taking our cue from the only other couple in the waiting area, I gingerly took a seat next to my husband and listened to the random, mechanical sounds of a hospital. No one else in sight.

It was at this time, that my overactive imagination decided to kick in. Anxiety, nervous laughter. The image of that scene in Walking Dead or Resident Evil or Dawn of the Dead where the building is deserted and a lone zombie just strolls though. Attempting to lighten my mood; I made the mistake of voicing this and won a ton of laughs, and some bizarre looks, from the other 3 people in the room.

I’d only just finished telling my anecdote, when a very angry-looking feller walked through the doors. He looked flustered and outraged. Mr Cranky-Pants started to march up and down the corridor asking random people, orderlies, other patients, a cleaner, where the reception was! We didn’t see him again.

I was taken around to a second waiting area where I was asked to take a seat (again). I watched quietly as the other lady was taken into a cubicle, like the ones at the swimming baths, to discuss consent and instructions. She came out looking relieved, but no different. I began to relax, I mentally chastised myself for worrying.

A nice young woman in blue scrubs asked me to follow her to discuss the ‘procedure’. I began nodding along to her routine questions. I almost choked when she handed me a couple of hospital gowns (you know the ones- with a gap in the back!)

Cue ‘internal whinge-voice’: “BUT that other woman didn’t have to wear one!! I haven’t shaved my legs, the floor is cold and I’ll have to go sit back out in the waiting room in this hideous friggin’ gown!!”

As I undressed I began chucking my clothes in the locker, resounding bangs only served to fuel my darkening mood, gritting my teeth and muttering to myself; a few choice swear words. I then heard my husband say aloud “Someone doesn’t sound very happy…”

Eye-roll.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the cubicle door, owning it. “Why is it always me?” The other couple giggled and looked at each other, I answered only with a blushing smile.

When I eventually got into the prep room, the nurse was unable to get a cannula fitted as my veins collapse under pressure. I ended up with 5 holes as he tried again and again, stabbing me with the needle. He even filled up a rubber glove with warm water to try warming my arm to coax the vein to the surface of my skin! I ended up leaving with 5 holes; 3 in my left arm and 2 in my right!

The whole experience was eye opening, but not overly traumatising. It felt like I was laid in that machine for an age, inwardly rocking to the dum-dum-dum-dum. As I listened through the ear defenders I couldn’t help but notice the similarity between the mechanical noise and the beginning of a well-known Queen song.

I was just waiting for the “Flash ah-ahhhh…” to kick in… turn it up LOUD!

November 25, 2016 by ChronicWriter

I am not unreliable. My illness is.

After having yet another troublesome half a year, health-wise, I once again find myself in a state of unrest. Awaiting further surgery and battling monthly flares courtesy of my Endometriosis, has left me feeling weak and lost. Unable to fulfil my role in my new job, I am unsure of where that leaves me professionally. I could get a part-time job, get stronger, strive for more responsibility and more hours but then I crash down again once my illness dictates I’ve done enough or too much.

I never thought I would have to plan out every aspect of my life, constantly asking myself; “What if I get sick? What if I need more surgery?” I have never felt more reliable in my life. Lately, it feels like this illness is who I am now, it’s my life and I have forgotten what I enjoy, what my goals were, and who I am. It’s almost as if I need to learn who I am, reconnect with what I want from life. It saddens me that I have forgotten what I was like before my symptoms first started. Was I fun? Full of energy? Outgoing?

I look out from my office window, watching the clouds float by, blurred in the winter breeze, the sun shines to hide the cold. The clouds move so slowly and I feel dizzy as I watch, it’s almost as if I can feel the minutes tick by, me frantically trying to catch up to life.

As I sit in my pyjamas, on a Friday morning, writing this entry, it is difficult to look beyond the 8^th of December, the date of my next surgery. A surgery that will remove my faulty ovary and in its place, a gaping hole. What do I fill that hole with? How can I mend myself from the inside out?

I don’t know the answers to these questions yet, I may never know, but I will stumble along as we all do in life, trying to do the best that I can, with people that I love, with patience and understanding.

I regret that I cannot publish more light-hearted posts at this time, but my thoughts are hectic and do not always make sense, but I use this blog much like a journal, and hopefully my sisters with illness can relate and will take comfort in knowing we are not alone. Please reach out to me, if you are struggling today.

November 13, 2016November 12, 2016 by ChronicWriter

Single vs Plural

Life, My Endo Diary, Writing
chronic illness, chronic pain, chronicblogs, friends, Life, relationships, school, women
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A writer & her dog

I’m going to say what no feminist, or girl gang member, is supposed to say; I like being in a relationship. I love it, I love being a We, being an Us.

I feel safer around others, don’t get me wrong- I love my own space. I like sitting by myself, reading, writing (sound like such a geek!) and watching the TV I want to watch.

I read a lot of Danielle Steel novels through my adolescence, the trauma of heartbreak and the drama of finding love made a lasting imprint early in my life. I was transformed from a shy girl to a hopeless romantic within a year, as soon as the wave of hormones took me over at 13 years old.

I watch re-runs. I can watch episodes over and over until I find new bits to laugh at. I watch shows like Sex and the City, Friends and Downton Abbey. As I nervously giggle at Samantha’s sexcapades or cheer Carrie on in her fight to win Mr Big, or cringe at Chandler’s bad luck in early relationships and frown at Mary’s stand-offish, stubborn attitude – I am thankful that I am not alone, that I have found my other half, and that I’m NOT single.

I know, sacrilege! An independent woman, declaring that she needs to be in a relationship, needs to have a man next to her, am I mad?

But, now I live with a chronic illness, I have begun seeing myself as somewhat unreliable, with a fragility that I cannot control and an insecurity that sometimes gets the better of me, despite how hard I try to get a hold of myself.

The thing is, I can’t even remember what I used to be like before I was plagued by chronic pain and worrying if I would be ill again next month, or trying to describe and explain every single pain I feel, desperately waiting for my next Dr’s appointment.

And to imagine dating, or trying to explain why I am the way I am, to a stranger, doesn’t bear thinking about. My illness has turned me into a needy, insecure, reassurance-seeking, crying, stressy mess. A mess which my husband is legally obligated to clean up. I feel incredibly guilty that I wasn’t like this when we first met, it’s almost like I’ve lured him into false pretences, like the don’t worry I’m on the pill trap, only with less sex and more late night chemist runs. Nick is incredibly patient and understanding, and I know I married a great man.

So, while it’s awesome having ‘me time’, and that I’m irrevocably in love with my husband, I’m also close to him, like best friend close. And the fact that I can tell him everything, makes life with this bag of shit illness easier to live with. He gets it. He gets me.

If I didn’t have this best friend, I wouldn’t be living it up with my single girlfriends like the girls in Sex & the City. I’d be living at home with my parents, sharing a room with my little sister, spotty and an emotional wreck.

After just 7 words; I’ve leap-frogged back to 2004. I’m a prude, a bof & socially anxious. I have the same school friend that I have now with the same senses of humour but without the worldly knowledge we possess now.

In the words of Ace Ventura: “No, spank you very much.” My life may not be perfect right now, but it’s a damn sight better than it was back then. That’s good, right?

Progress.

November 3, 2016November 3, 2016 by ChronicWriter

Tell me it’s just a bad dream…

“No rational thinking can erase the thought or feeling.” – Beethy (the artist)

As the panic set in, I laid in bed, my mind running 200 miles per hour and I tried to understand what was happening to me. Am I having a heart attack? I was laid in bed, my husband sleeping next to me, and I was overwhelmed by silent sobs, suffocating, gulping breath so deep my lungs started to burn. I can’t breathe. My hands began to shake as I tried to sit up, hot tears stung my eyes as I desperately tried to regain control. I’m drowning- right here, in my own bed. I could feel a cold sweat develop all over my skin, the cold morning causing goose-bumps on my arms & legs.

This went on for what seemed like hours, but was in fact only six minutes. Not knowing what had triggered this attack worried me more than how it had physically hurt me. What was the matter with me? I don’t have panic attacks. Brushing myself off, I mentally chastised myself & put the kettle on.

A couple of days later, when I was feeling mentally strong enough to analyse what had occurred in the early hours of that morning:

I had been woken from deep sleep by a sharp, stabbing pain in my right side, just under my bottom rib at the front. This pain had triggered such a fear that my mind and body had struggled to deal with it rationally.

My mind had raced from identifying the pain, giving it a name and then rushed to icy thoughts of the future and the “when will it end?” It won’t. The fact that I now know I have active endometriosis on my diaphragm has somehow altered my perception of how my illness will impact my life in the future. In my stricken state, I irrationally, put 2+2 together and came out with 5 (I’m shit at maths at the best of times!)

If I had endo on my diaphragm and my Dr was too scared to remove it, it was too close to my lung, it’s travelled from my pelvis, reproductive system and bowel, up to my diaphragm. It can’t be too long before I’ll have endo in my lungs! Coughing up blood every time I get my period!

A horrific image accompanied this last thought. It was me, fast-forward by 6 months, or a year. I’m crying soundlessly, sitting on the edge of my bathtub, my hand to my mouth. Gently rocking back & forth. Pulling my hand away, there is blood. My mouth forms the ‘O’ of a sob, but I remain silent. Stark red contrast against my pasty palm and crimson staining my teeth.

This image seems to be scorched onto the insides of my eyelids because I see it every time I close my eyes. When I remember the fear and panic and this projection; my focus blurs, my vision distorts and I’m suddenly sucking in air with desperation.

Panic? Anxiety?

I don’t even know what to call it.

But it’s safe to say, I haven’t slept properly since this first happened. Which is why I’m posting this at midnight.

October 30, 2016November 21, 2016 by ChronicWriter

| October Favourites |

I love LOVE Autumn. It makes journeys prettier, hot drinks a necessity and a scarf so so cosy. The best thing about being a blogger during Autumn is seeing all the wonderful updates via social media. Pinterest is aglow with burnt oranges and reds, I can’t blink for pumpkin patch pictures and it’s all so great to see everyone trying to win the prize for best Halloween costume! Above, are just a few of the pictures from the past month- but Winter is definitely coming!

Speaking of Autumn, a different Autumn has captured my attention on Twitter. Chronically Chill aka @autumnjduncan has a sharp wit & a fab sense of humour. From one chronically ill lady to another- BRAVO!

I want Michelle Obama to be President. Being from the UK, a lot of the politics across the pond is lost on me as their campaign videos are live during the hours when I’m (usually) sleeping. But this woman’s strength, drive & compassion for American people is not lost on this Brit. I have watched her speech about 4 times now and she gets me every time. What a speech?! Mrs Obama knows how to reach the crowd and hits the nail on the head with every syllable. Some of her speech, I could even use to describe some of my experiences with chronic illness.

Click to watch the First Lady in action

Next…

Megs, who writes the blog ‘Wonderful You’, has written a new blog post. Now, the reason this post is in my October Favourites, is that it is written so honestly and sparing no emotion, there was no way I could NOT include it in this segment. Her post, entitled ‘At the Bottom’, tells of her struggles with low mood and a lack of positivity. Her words are beautifully written and Megs has confessed her experience shortly after World Mental Health Day, Monday 10th October 2016. She has inspired people everywhere to dig deep and take a hard look at their emotions; to realise that admitting this struggle is not a sign of weakness. Since reading this and other articles linked to WMHD, I have been able acknowledge my own failings when it comes to anxiety, stress and self-doubt. Please, do not ignore this important recognition. Visit Wonderful You now.

I am loving Essential Oils lately. I have been having a tough time getting to sleep. I suspect that this has a lot to do with my poor emotional state at the minute. However, I have been determined to find a natural sleep-aid. After speaking with a couple of my Endosisters on Twitter, I decided to invest in an oil burner and some essential oils. I started with Rose Geranium as a family friend of mine used to burn it in her hallway, it was so welcoming and uplifting when I went to visit. I have also ordered Lavender as I have found that Lavender pillow sprays have been very good for instantly calming me, but they don’t tend to last more than 10 minutes or so. I’m going to try a few more & will be writing a review in the coming months. Stay tuned!

Now, as you have probably guessed, I am an Instagram enthusiast. Beyond Pinterest, Insta is my next favourite social media platform. I follow some amazing people, from all over the world, seemingly leading extraordinary lives. But out of them all, my October Favourites are: InspiredtoWrite (Amie) and theyellowhairedgirl.

Amie is a writer whose flat-lays and workspace photos are epic. They spur me into action, with a swift kick, falling out of procrastination mode. She updates every day and it’s always different. She inspires, motivates and her photos are a joy to see.

Theyellowhairedgirl is mentioned in this week’s Grazia UK magazine, so the praise for this recommendation should be theirs. Her posts are funny and individual, which every woman can relate to. Excellent work! Thanks, Grazia.

fullsizerender

Last on my list this month is from my beauty best-buys. Barry M’s Nail Paint in Masquerade and in Twinkle Twinkle is all the glitter ‘N’ gold you’ll need before the Christmas countdown.

Masquerade is coloured glitter polish with hues of pink, blue and gold. I used this atop my favourite black nail polish (Maybelline’s Color Show in 677 Blackout) and was so happy with the result. It lasted a good week and I got lots of compliments (it seemed to make my nails, or the fact I had some, more noticeable!)

Twinkle Twinkle is a beautifully soft gold polish, almost rose gold. Covers the nail with just one coat, and doesn’t take forever to dry. I love the subtlety of this shade, and how feminine it makes me feel. Less is more with this Nail Paint. However, this Barry M colour is a Limited Edition at Superdrug, so get it while you can! I’ll be going back to stock up!

October 19, 2016October 24, 2016 by ChronicWriter

LOL S1 Ep2

LOL Series
chronic illness, Endometriosis, funny, health, humour, Life, LOL Series, recovery, women
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I apologise in advance if this is too honest/too gross/too cringey for your delicate eyes.

This is the 2^nd episode in my LOL stories – I hope it lightens your day.

Read, laugh and try not to judge me too much.

I am 3 days post-op. I am on my period and grumpy. I have the stomach of a heavily pregnant lady; only it’s not a baby, it’s just swelling. I’m feeling grotty and I’m in pain.

On this morning, my husband is up for work. It’s 6am and he’s passed me my hot water bottle and pulled the covers back over me. He’s downstairs somewhere, sleepy and drinking tea.

And suddenly, I’m awake. I’m running to the bathroom with awful stomach cramps. I sit on the toilet and grimace as I get rid of everything (including my spleen and a lung). I’m hurting and a little bit overwhelmed. I’m sitting with my head in my hands, feeling awful and cursed.

As if I need this right now?!

And that’s how I’m sat as I hear my husband climb the stairs and walk down the hallway. He knocks and with concern in his voice, he says: “Are you okay, bab-?”

Only I cut him off and scream at the closed door “DON’T COME IN HERE!!! DON’T COME IN!”

Jesus, I can’t let him in here. After all the other shit he’s had to deal with and all the talk about periods and babies he’s had to listen to and all my crazy mood swings he’s had to accept whilst trying this contraceptive or that hormone injection. I just couldn’t let him in.

Like the loving husband that he is, he opened the door just a crack; just wide enough to see me sat on the loo with my jama’s around my ankles, head in my hands, taking deep breaths as I fought to hold back sobs. He quietly closed the door and waited until I was done before going to work- tucking me back into bad and kissing my forehead before he left.

Don’t worry- this “aww!” moment was not lost on me. No matter how much pain I’m in or how much crap (in this case, literally) I have to deal with, I am still so grateful to have him. I appreciate him and how much he looks after me when I’m poorly.

Anyway…

So I had a horrendous toilet experience, luckily I wasn’t having to travel to the hospital and had the luxury of locking myself away in my own bathroom.

And before you ask- no this is not the end of the story. If you can believe it- it gets worse.

After hiding in bed for a few more hours, I pull myself together and head for a shower. Everything pretty normal so far. Only- I felt something, not quite right, down there. I thought: Well I’ve got Endo on my bowel, it’s probably pretty pissed off after being traumatised this morning. And shrugged it off.

I felt lots better after a shower. I got dressed (at this point, by ‘dressed’ I mean put on clean loungewear/jammies) and decided to make a brew. And still I knew something wasn’t right. Something was new, different. Whilst the kettle boiled I headed to the bathroom to investigate.

I had what seemed like a growth/lump/parasite on my bum. Well this is new.

There was a small voice in the back of mind telling me I knew exactly what it was. I slapped it around the face to shut it up. Can I get a break- PLEASE?! No, I can’t have haemorrhoids; not on top of everything else I have to deal with right now. My body hates me.

But how could I be sure? My curiosity got the better of me.

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October 6, 2016October 24, 2016 by ChronicWriter

Post-op Realness (graphic!)

On 20th September, I had my second laparoscopy.

Since my operation, I haven’t cried. I have tried to be strong, if I lose it- even for a minute, I may never pull my shit back together again. In the past when I’ve cried, like a sneeze, the people around me cry too. This makes me feel guilty. Guilty for making them sad, guilty for making them despair along with me, guilty because there are people in the world in a worst situation than me.

I was re-diagnosed. This time with Stage IV Endometriosis. My entire abdominal cavity was covered in cysts; on my ovaries, uterus, ureter, appendix, bowel, abdominal wall, diaphragm, a lot of Endometriosis, everywhere. I have seen the photographs my Dr took during my surgery. I have seen the physical damage this illness has caused. Now I’m dealing with the emotional damage.

Every day since my surgery, I have woken up in pain. At 6:30am, my husband, who has been a never-shaking source of support and strength, fills my hot water bottle and slides it under the covers while I sleep, and then leaves for work. He has been there every step of the way, and although he cannot take the pain away, he has shouldered this burden with me. He’s been there: when I’ve woken him up in the middle of the night, moaning in my sleep as I struggle with pain, he has waited alone in a hospital room- waiting for me to come out of recovery, ever being the calm in the eye of the storm. As I start to panic and become overwhelmed- I look to my husband, hold his gaze and I’m able to breathe again: “We’ve got this.”

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September 30, 2016September 18, 2016 by ChronicWriter