There is no mincing words, I’ve had a bad week.
When you get sent home because you look that terrible, you have to admit it is not a good week.
The Cuterus is angry. Very angry.
Having received the date for my operation, I think my Cuterus is planning one last good-bye shindig. And it was one hell of a party, I can assure you.
At least I have some very clear criteria from my boss and colleagues at work so the next time I feel ill, I’ll know not to chance going in.
These are the things I have to tick:
- I can stand up straight without an agonised face.
- I can walk properly, not like a 15-month pregnant penguin.
- I am not the colour of death.
- I can get out of my office chair without having to brace my tummy for movement.
- I can move without muttering ow every fourth movement.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t have attempted to go into work in the first place but I woke up feeling a bit achy in the morning – but there was nothing new there. I got into the car feeling a bit crampier than usual but nothing a couple of tablets couldn’t sort out. I went quite pale at the tram stop, prompting my mum to question whether or not I should make the final leg of my journey but I had made it that far, it seemed a shame to turn back now.
I sat down on the tram. My stomach was blazing with the hottest hell fire. My ovaries felt like they were going to pop any second. I felt sick and hungry, not to mentioned exhausted beyond belief. Should I have turned back at that point?
No. I needed to get to work, get some Co-Codamol or Ibuprofen down me so I wouldn’t be a hazard to myself. If I got in the car, I wouldn’t have been able to drive safely.
So I waddled into work. I eased myself into my chair and turned on the computer.
My colleagues came in one by one and each of them remarked on how bad I looked. When one person says this, that’s normal. When everyone says this, time to go home.
I allowed a lot of time for the tablets to kick in, I even went to the weekly team meeting for comms people in the faculty. However, when I got back to my desk, under the glares of those over the desk divider, I began wrapping things up. It wasn’t until the departmental manager came to the end of my desk and told me that I’d better not be there when she returned from Tesco in such a way that was firm but friendly – with a tad of a threat – that I hastily turned off my computer and high tailed it out of the office as fast as I could waddle.
I didn’t bother to go in the next day. Or rather, I didn’t dare.
Endo hurts 75% of the time. The only reason it doesn’t hurt is because you’re sleeping. Sometimes it hurts a little, other times it floors you. Sometimes it feels like you have a very fat cat sitting on your tummy and other times it feels like Norman Bates is going to town with his knife.
My problem with Endo, and possibly every other illness I have, is I never feel bad first thing in the morning. It always waits until I’ve got to school or work or outside the house before the devil’s alarm clock goes off.
Next time, to avoid threats and glares, I think I won’t risk it. Next time I’ll put on the coat and leave right away.
Well… maybe.
Uterus is not Cuterus 