Yesterday I was poorly again.
I spent large parts of the day in bed and the rest of it feebly trying to get to the supermarket to buy bread and milk. I tottered round, supported by the loving arms of my family, who thought I was mad. I looked like Julie Walters in ‘Two Soups’.
It’s not a good look.
I cried all the way home.
Then I decided I perhaps needed some fresh air, so I tottered back out into the cold and rain and crept about our housing estate like an ageing stalker. I had a hot water bottle under my coat. I lasted ten minutes.
One good thing about it raining was that it mixed with the tears on my face.
I was extremely tragic.
I once again came to the conclusion that there was something terribly wrong with me. Then I realised that I came to this self same conclusion at this time in my last period. I also remembered that as soon as I stopped bleeding I started to feel better again.
This cheered me up slightly.
Today I have stopped bleeding. I shouldn’t have, but I have. Amazingly I feel better.
I have thought about the suggestion a kind friend put to me about having a test for coeliac disease, which shares a lot of the symptoms with what I have. I might request the blood test anyway, but after the last twenty four hours I am convinced that this is entirely hormone related.
I could go out and do all my jobs now except that it is absolutely lashing it down with rain and the wind is blowing it sideways into the pampas grass. When I opened the back door to let the cat out for a pee this morning she leapt backwards, flattened herself on the floor and put her ears back in ‘Gor Blimey’ mode.
That’s a bit how we all feel about it.
I have stayed in and done chores instead.
I realise that the interminable and repetitive diary of my menstrual hideousness is not edifying reading, but I am trying to keep track of how I am feeling and when I am feeling it as a record should I have to tie myself to a stake in the Dr’s surgery car park and demand to be seen.
Which is likely what it will come to.