Yesterday marked a month to the day of my op, and honestly, it’s all a bit much. In the weeks, even days, following my operation, I felt Better. With a capital “B”. Within 48 hours of waking up from the operation, I was back to my normal dose of pain killers, which, whilst they might be higher than normal people’s doses, is an achievement. I was feeling so hopefully about it all, maybe a bit too much, admittedly.
I did bleed heavily. More heavily than I was expecting. I had bought plenty of heavy duty reusable towels due to how heavy my periods were before hand, and a few extra to be sure. But Even then I went through them more than I was expecting. Then it stopped. Thank goodness. And I was feeling relieved, thinking maybe I could get a fair idea of things when the bleeding had stopped. A few days of normality, life being semi normal, and then being out with friends for dinner, and I flooded. Managed to hobble-dash to the toilet, had to throw my pants away but could save my tights (thank goodness). A huge amount of blood and some nasty looking clots. I did the classiest thing known to mankind and called my husband to pick me up, adding, “And I flooded everywhere, bring a towel”. So rock and roll.
The occasional cramp over Christmas and the maintaining inability to tolerate eating anything at all, but life was good. It was a lovely, blissful, peaceful Christmas. And I enjoyed most of it with only normal levels of pain – and have formally decided they should prescribe snowballs on the NHS.
Then, because the year always starts with a good indication of the year, I started cramping badly and bleeding slightly on the 1st. Then the 2nd it got worse. And here we are on the 5th and Jesus CHRIST I am a miserable cow. I thought the hormonal flares after were bad enough. So now on top of bursting into tears when seeing a Flower Fairy book (true story) or seeing an advert despite it having run every twenty minutes (also true), I feel like my body is beyond broken.
The fibro has flared, and it feels like there are blunted flames running through my body. My limbs are heavy but numb. I feel sick, viciously sick. Continuing with no appetite, and the background knowledge that anything I eat with make its exit viciously anyway. My head is pounding. My uterus feels like it’s trying to scrape it’s way out of my body, and my lower back is so painful I can barely move; the joy of nerve locations. As for the bleeding… honestly, it’s heavy enough to remind me of my miscarriages. And the clotting is horrific. I’m not squeamish (I wanted to go into forensics!) But it hasn’t helped with the nausea certainly.
I’m trying so hard to remain positive, and trying to focus on things getting better, and trying. Just, trying. But it’s exhausting.
Regardless of mental illness, I am a logical, positive person, and I knew this operation wouldn’t be a magic fix. And yet trying to function with this level of pain, and this level of being symptomatic, is so difficult. I gave up on wanting life to be normal years ago, but maybe I got my hopes up too high for results.
I’m not a fan of the whole “New year , new me” type attitude, but what I am a fan of is taking things step by step, whether that means day by day, or minute by minute, or book by book. Being unable to crochet without extreme pain at the moment means that when I’m sick of watching TV I’m drowning myself in my book list for this year.
Disappointment, and determination.