This illness is ruining my life…

So this week has been the worst week in a LONG time.

Only as recent as last week I was feeling the happiest and most positive I’d ever felt. I’m married, to the love of my life, I have an amazing job with absolutely wonderful colleagues and students, and I’m getting my own business off the ground.

I thought I’d finally ‘made it’.

Then, Monday morning hit.

I was in agony. The most pain I’ve been in since before my surgery (which, by the way, was nearly a year ago now!)

I struggled in to work and tried to battle on with painkillers.

Like I mentioned before, I absolutely love my job. I’ve been there just over 2 months now and it’s the most wonderful place to work. I have amazing, supportive, understanding, encouraging colleagues who are genuinely lovely human beings. The students I teach are also great – too often they are written off by society because of the area they live in/are from, but they are honestly wonderful characters and they make my job a joy and a pleasure to do! My lovely manager tried to send me home at Monday lunchtime, as I think she could see how much I was struggling. I refused. I wanted to make it through to the end of the day, as I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that this stupid pain was going to keep me off for a lot longer than an afternoon.

I was right.

I’ve been off the past couple of days in the hope that some holistic therapy, pain meds and rest would help me to feel better.

It didn’t.

I’m worse.

I went to see the doctor this morning.

She was horrible.

I don’t ever remember having an appointment with her before and I don’t ever wish to again.

She didn’t know anything about my medical history and told me to “shh” while she spent 10 minutes reading my extensive notes (surely she should’ve done that BEFORE my appointment?!)

She continued to be rude and abrupt with me and told me she was sure my symptoms weren’t down to endometriosis.

I knew they were because I know my own body and I’ve been dealing with this illness for the past year (probably longer, albeit undiagnosed).

I was then prodded and poked in all of the areas on my abdomen that were in agony, for her to tell her it was probably an ‘inflamed bowel’ then an ‘inflamed appendix’ before she finally put me through the humiliation and extreme pain of an internal examination.

She then changed her mind and decided that my scar tissue was probably infected, that I’m unfit to work for at least a week and need a double dose of strong antibiotics.

Great.

Just fucking great.

Here we go again.

She still wouldn’t refer me to my consultant and at one stage told me to put my phone away after she’d told me to check when was best for an appointment next week.

I’ve never in my life complained about a GP, even though I have had so many reasons to in the past 12-18 months.

Now, after complaining, I magically have a referral letter that will be ready for collection tomorrow morning, along with a follow up appointment with the Senior Doctor next week.

Totally and utterly ridiculous.

I’m sick of the total lack of understanding for my condition and I’m sick of having to battle for help when I say I’m in pain.

I’m so scared of not being able to work when I’m finally in a job I love and in an amazing workplace with wonderful people.

I’m scared that I’m going to get worse and never be able to work again.

Just when I felt things were going well for me, and I was truly happy, my body gives up yet again.

I feel like I always complain when I come on here, and I’m sorry for that, as I’ve had a really happy few months.

Sometimes, you just really need to vent, don’t you?!

Just to make things clear…

Hi world.

Just so we’re clear and things aren’t misunderstood, here’s a little bit about me.

I’m a 25 year old trapped in a mind (and body) that is much much older and definitely a lot more mature.

For the best part of ten years, all I’ve wanted is to fall in love, get married, and have a family.

For the past nearly fifteen years, all I’ve wanted to do is teach. Just teach. Inspire young minds and show them that they can be successful and they can make a difference in the world. (Yes, that same world that has fucked me over so many times I’ve lost count.)

I don’t feel my hopes, dreams and ambitions are all that great.

I don’t think it’s such a massive thing to want to be left alone to live the life I so desperately want to live.

Why is it that people always try to destroy this for me?

I don’t want much, nor do I ask for much.

I don’t want to be rich or famous or even massively successful in my field.

I don’t want to be in charge of my own school and take all of the credit for everyone else’s hard work.

I just want to be me.

I want to be ‘Miss’ when I’m at work, and be the best teacher I can possibly be, and I want to be ‘wife’ and ‘mum’ when I’m at home, and, again, be the best wife and mummy I can possibly be.

Is this really too much to ask?

Is this really too much to desire?

Apparently so.

The other day Mr Mad said to me he thinks maybe sometimes people try to destroy my happiness (or, as recent events have clearly shown, destroy my life) because they don’t know me that well. Maybe he’s right, but I feel I’ve had to put up a strong, confident front to get through everything that life has thrown at me so far. I don’t want people to see that I’m incredibly sensitive and vulnerable as I’m scared they’ll take advantage of that. Only, it appears that was a stupid tack to take, as people have tried, and are still trying, to destroy my life regardless.

So this is my message, to the universe, in the hope that someday someone will come along and actually understand and realise that I come in peace.

That I don’t want your job.

That I don’t want your family.

I don’t want your happiness or your success or your things.

I don’t want or need anything of yours and I certainly don’t need to destroy you, who you are and what you have.

All I want is to live in my little house at the bottom of the grove with my wonderful husband, my gorgeous cats and (if I’m very very lucky) two beautiful children.

That is literally all I want.

What I need is a decent job to support that, and that’s what I’ve spent the past ten years trying to achieve.

I hated school.

Hated it.

I never managed to fit in and everybody was horrible to me.

I was beaten up several times, I had lighters held to my head on the bus home, I had food thrown at me, I was spat at, called a ridiculous amount of disgusting and horrible names and was constantly told I would amount to nothing.

Throughout all of that, as an awkward, self-conscious teenager, I tried my best to stay strong.

I tried my best to keep my head down and study and come out with the best exam results I possibly could so I could start on the path to forging my own future.

In the middle of my GCSEs my Grandad, my wonderful, amazing, kind-hearted, perfect Grandad got seriously ill.

I still didn’t miss a day of school.

I still went in and I worked and worked and then I went to the hospital.

Every night.

I sat with my Grandad, while he was in his hospital bed, going over past papers and revising.

A week after I finished my last exam he was gone.

That was it.

He never even got to see me get my GCSE results (which were, as he predicted, fantastic, particularly my A in Maths that I’d struggled to get, and that he’d tutored me for for months upon months).

But I did it.

I still did it.

I stayed strong.

I learnt how to live without one of the most important men in my life.

I carried on.

I went to sixth form.

I studied for my A-Levels.

I applied to, and subsequently was accepted, into my first choice university to study English.

I still carried on.

All because I had my end goal in sight….

This image of a beautiful little family with a man I adored.

Not because I wanted to “be the best”.

Not because I wanted “what she has” or “what he has”.

No, because I just wanted my own little quiet life.

I got a job in the first year of uni so I could afford to save a little money and move out of home for a bit of freedom.

I met the love of my life there – he’s the man I marry in two and a half weeks’ time.

He’s even more than I ever dreamed of and I still count my lucky stars every day that throughout all of the crap that has been thrown at us, we have always managed to get through it together.

Yes, we have had times where we have had ‘breaks’ in our relationship, where neither of us could see another way through other than to be apart.

Yes, on the occasion where we were apart for 6 months we both had relationships with other people.

We’re not perfect, shit happens.

But we’ve never cheated.

We’ve never done anything disgustingly bad to each other, because we both have respect.

Why do so many people lack in that nowadays?

We’ve been back together for 3 years now, and when we get married in February, I know it will be forever. 

We’ve gone through losing two babies now (others may think differently and may believe they weren’t ‘real’ babies, but that’s how I feel and I won’t apologise for mourning the loss of our pregnancies).

We’ve gone through losing my amazing Nan, almost two years ago.

He, Mr Mad, has picked me up from rock bottom more times than I can count.

He’s wonderful and what we have is wonderful.

I don’t need what anybody else has because I have something amazing myself.

I also choose not to go on and on about how wonderful I think my husband-to-be is because I don’t want people to think I am bragging.

THAT IS WHY I HARDLY EVER TALK ABOUT MY RELATIONSHIP.

That’s another thing nobody seems to understand.

Just because I am an otherwise chatty person does not mean I am not private.

Nobody apart from my family and very closest friends know half of the shit I have been through, and there’s a reason for that.

Even now, even when I’m writing such a very deep and personal post, there are things I just won’t ever discuss.

I don’t understand how people have got me so wrong.

All I want, and need, in my life is my husband and my family.

That’s it.

So tell me why would anybody be so cruel as to try to ruin that for me?

What is it that I’ve done to deserve such horrible, vindictive, disgusting things being thrown at me?

I’m such a big champion of honesty and the truth, why aren’t other people?

Why do people believe lies even when it goes against everything else they’ve ever felt and known to be true?

Anyway, I’ve digressed.

I just can’t really believe or understand what is happening to my life right now.

This was supposed to be the happiest year of our lives.

We get married in two and a half weeks.

Instead of being excited and looking forward to it, we’re facing so much uncertainty and horrific times, all because of a few individuals.

We should be looking forward to our future.

We should be taking our steps that bit closer to having our longed-for child.

We should be enjoying our new house and be spending quality time together.

So, world, universe, please understand, I’m Mrs-Mad-to-be and I just want a quiet, simple life.

Nothing more, nothing less.

 

Hope is being able to see there is light despite all of the darkness…

I’m here.

Just about.

I really really miss writing (well, blogging) so I’m tentatively poking my big toe back into the word press water.

That was a pretty good metaphor… even if I do say so myself! (Typical English teacher! Always has to analyse everything that’s written down!)

I honestly don’t know where to start… and I actually doubt anyone has really been wondering where I’ve been for the past couple of months, as the state of mind I was in when I wrote my last blog post made things very clear.

There’s not a lot I actually can talk (or write) about. It’s a long story that I will probably never be able to tell to anybody asides from the one person in the world who is closest to me (that being, Mr Mad, of course).

Speaking of Mr Mad, we are exactly 29 days away from our wedding!

That time has gone by so so quickly, I can hardly believe that in less than a month I am going to officially become Mrs Mad!!

I wish things were better at the moment.

Not with Mr Mad and I, that, thanks to him being the world’s loveliest, most supportive partner, is the only thing that’s going right in my life currently.

The endometriosis is rearing its head… or, rather, creeping back in and trying to take over my body again.

I honestly wouldn’t wish this illness on anybody.

Well, maybe the person or people who are…. I’d better stop there, for fear of repercussions, you never know who might be digging or lurking for things that don’t even exist…

Anyway, today has consisted of mostly lying on the sofa under a blanket with a hot water bottle.

Now I am in bed, for a change of scenery, propped up with a gazillion pillows,  and a hot water bottle with a half-consumed cuppa resting on it.

Some people may think that’s an awesome way to spend a day… but, for me, it isn’t.

I’m struggling with pain.

It was this time last year that I really really began to struggle with pain, which I later (6 whole months later) found out was severe, stage 4 endometriosis. I know this because an old Facebook status came up on my Timehop yesterday, where I was complaining about deferred pain.

I’m starting to realise that I may never have what I consider to be a ‘normal’ life ever again.

This illness… it’s got me… despite the fact that I constantly try to fight back, it has me in its grips and it will never fully let go…. I will never be fully rid of it.

For the past couple of weeks I have had hope…

I have had hope that things will get better.

I have had hope that all of the darkness in my life (and I say all of, because there is an awful, awful lot of darkness in my life right now) will somehow lift and things will be right again.

Today, mainly because of the endo flare up, I am mostly in agony, feeling incredibly negative and rather tearful.

I know life isn’t fair.

I get that… it’s actually something I’ve only recently started to properly understand and accept.

But what I can’t get on board with at the moment is why, when things are just starting to improve for someone and their life seems to be going okay for once, somebody comes along and tries to destroy that for them…. tell me, what kind of person would do that?

It’s taking all of my effort, currently, to not become a total recluse and never leave the house.

And I actually mean never leave the house… not just what I’ve been doing recently, which is only leaving the house to attend therapy, pain-relief clinic at the doctors and reflexology. Let’s face it, that’s not much of a life as it is, really, is it?

Gosh… I actually planned for this post to be hopeful and full of positivity, as I’m really trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel and the hope in amongst everything that is going on right now… evidently the darkness in my life is too great at the moment.

It’s very lonely being stuck in the house on your own all day everyday.

It gives you an awful lot of time to think.

To think, and to draw conclusions.

Currently, there are two big question marks over two things I need answers to and I need to draw conclusions on, but can’t seem to.

1. What do I do if I never have the blessing of a child?
2. What do I do if I can never teach again?

Answers on a postcard….

 

 

just kidding!

 

Tell me it gets better…

Tell me this empty feeling goes away.

Tell me the tears, the agony and the heart break fade.

Tell me my heart will slow down enough for me to breathe properly.

Tell me I will be able to eat properly again.

Tell me I will be able to pick myself and dust myself off before tomorrow so I can go into work and I don’t lose my job for having too much time off.

Tell me people will stop telling me “if it’s meant to be it will be” and “one day you will have a baby” and “no doctor has officially told you you’re infertile and can’t have children”.

Tell me one day this huge house will be filled with the tears and laughter of a child we created out of love.

Tell me one day this pain will end and I will be happy again.

Tell me it gets better…

please tell me it gets better…

How can you be sad over something that never existed?

I don’t know where to begin.

I haven’t posted in a long, long time, as it wasn’t giving me the same cathartic feeling as it once did.

It’s hard.

So fucking hard.

I feel trapped inside my head constantly and am struggling to release any of that stress, tension and pressure.

This week has been one of the shittiest weeks of my life.

My life had been ticking over, I guess you could say, for a number of months.

Back to work, start of new school year, lead up to wedding, hen cruise (which was a bit of a disaster in itself, and seemed to matter at the time but is pale in significance after the events of this week), moved into our dream house etc etc.

Been off anti-depressants for 8 whole weeks now.

No strong painkillers.

Exercising regularly.

Eating well.

Doing. everything. I. am. supposed. to. be. doing.

BAM

Period 1 week late.

Cue excitement (stupidly) from me and a rush to take a pregnancy test.

Faint line.

It’s okay… leave a day or two, test again. Don’t get hopes up. Mustn’t get hopes up. Will only be a few weeks pregnant at most. Don’t get excited.

Do.

not.

get.

excited.

Wednesday rolls around.

Test again.

Faint line is stronger than last time.

Must be a positive.

GOT TO BE A POSITIVE!

Excited and crying happy tears.

Tell Mr Mad.

He is his usual sceptical self.

But I know, I mean, I know, I am pregnant. I can tell. Because, you just know, don’t you?

Friday, 3am.

Wake up in the most agony I’ve been in since before my surgery, when my endo was at its worse.

Go to bathroom.

Blood everywhere.

Then I knew….

even if I had been pregnant, I definitely wasn’t anymore.

I lay on my kitchen floor (my gorgeous, so-shiny-you-can-see-your-face-in-it black kitchen floor, in my dream house, our dream house, our family home) for an hour sobbing my heart out.

How could this happen?

How could life be so cruel to me, to us?

How could Mr Mad still be asleep when my entire world is crumbling underneath me?

It’s not his fault. It’s my fault. As per usual everything is my fault.

I stress too much.

I work too much.

I exercise too much.

I ate too many chocolates the other night.

I had a gin and tonic to calm myself down after a particularly stressful day at work.

I’ve taken on too many extra things.

I’m rushing around too much.

ALL MY FAULT.

Except, is it?

Everybody keeps telling me that if it’s meant to be, it will be. I understand it’s to try to comfort me, but it really doesn’t help.

Never before have I experienced such lack of compassion in a hospital. Being stuck with visibly pregnant women whose partners are cooing over them when you’re in agony and bleeding is the single worse thing in the entire universe.

To know that one day, in about 4-6 months, every other woman in that waiting room would be leaving that hospital with her baby, meanwhile mine, which never really properly existed, is gone forever.

But it wasn’t really a baby, was it? How can it be after a couple of weeks.

Chemical pregnancy they call it, don’t they?

Never would’ve been a baby.

So why does it hurt so much?

Why do I keep replaying that conversation with the doctor over and over again?

“What number pregnancy was this?”

“Three”

“How many children do you have?”

“None.”

And I suppose I should be thankful that I’m still here. A little over 24 hours ago I was being rushed to hospital thinking I had an ectopic pregnancy and they were going to remove yet more of my precious reproductive parts.

But why won’t my body work properly?

What have I done that’s so awful to deserve this?

I have no hope left.

None.

All I see is 50 years, if I am that ‘lucky’, in a big empty house.

Endless holidays.

Tonnes of cats.

But still no children.

Never

any

children.

 

 

 

All is quiet on the Western (Baby) Front…

I really thought we’d managed this time. I really thought we’d finally managed to make a baby.

I mean, I still won’t be convinced until I have a proper period, which doesn’t seem to have happened yet this month.

I’m a week late.

I was sure I was pregnant.

I’d convinced myself I was.

All yesterday, in particular, I felt awful.

I felt nauseous all day and almost ruined my poor mum’s trip to Harrogate with me. I ended up having to drive us home early but I felt hopeful, because I’d convinced myself I was pregnant, so the sickness and feeling like shit was worth it.

I’ve felt like crap again today, came home and took the 3rd pregnancy test in a week.

Negative.

Again.

I just don’t know how much longer I can take this.

I feel like Mr Mad doesn’t fully understand either.

I’m sure he’d say he’s trying to understand.

But can men really ever understand?

It’s awful being a woman and not being able to do the one thing you are meant to do.

I feel like I’m losing all hope.

I’m really trying to be positive. I’ve adjusted my lifestyle. I’m off all medication, I’m exercising regularly, following a strict, clean and healthy diet and limiting my alcohol intake.

I’m taking folic acid, vitamin c, vitamin d.

I’m getting at least 8 hours sleep a night and I’m trying to minimise stress in my life.

I’m following every bit of advice I possibly can…. so WHY AM I NOT PREGNANT?!!!!

This happens by accident for so many people and yet it doesn’t seem to be happening for me on purpose.

I don’t feel like blogging anymore as I feel like I’m just being a massive whinger and there’s no need for people to have to read it and deal with it!

So yeah… in case any of you were wondering where I’d been and what’s been happening…. here’s the update in a nutshell…

I’m still not pregnant!

It’s not because you’re not happy for them… it’s because you’re sad for you…

Yesterday I spent some lovely quality time with my mum. It was great to see her properly and get the chance to have a proper chat without me having a ‘fuzzy’ head (either from prescription painkillers or recovering from horrific surgery).

We trawled through the rails of a new vintage shop (that’s a bit oxymoronic!) and had high tea at a Victorian tea rooms near my mum’s house.

It was wonderful.

However, the conversation naturally fell to babies.

As always.

As it will probably continue to be for a long time to come.

I joked to my mum, “If one more person I know announces they’re pregnant I’m going to go crazy!”

Obviously that’s not the case, but I am feeling incredibly down whenever somebody announces their pregnancy. I know I shouldn’t, and I know it’s horrible to be unhappy when somebody else is happy. But it’s very very difficult. Any of you struggling with infertility and this maternal ache that never leaves you will understand how depressing and lonely this whole thing is.

Last night I reactivated my Facebook account as I’ve felt a little out of touch with the world. It’s been a blessing and simultaneously a curse, being off social media. Going back on to social media has also been both a blessing and a curse. I scrolled down my “top stories” in a bid to catch up on ‘important’ news I had missed in the month I’ve been off the social network. There it was. One pregnancy announcement. Great… how ironic after saying to my mum I would go crazy at one more announcement. I didn’t go crazy. I didn’t express any emotions outwardly. Just another piece of me died inside. I felt selfish for being so pissed off at this person for being pregnant. I felt disgusted at myself for thinking things like “how come she deserves a baby and not me?” “for years she’s said she could take or leave having children and now she’s pregnant.” “she’s 40 and left it until now to decide she wanted a baby and she’s got one straight away.”

Then, when Mr Mad fell asleep last night, I lay in bed crying for an hour until I eventually dropped off into an emotionally induced slumber.

I know, I know, I’m a horrible, awful, mean person.

But I can’t even begin to put into words how heart wrenchingly difficult this whole experience is.

While she’s whinging on her status updates about not being able to fit into size 6 jeans anymore, due to her ever-growing bump, I’m sitting alone in an eerily quiet house wondering what my Sundays would be like if I had a toddler running around.

Somebody who shall remain nameless and faceless often likes to tell me I live a shallow existence (needless to say, this person is not, and will never be a friend). I wonder if she’s ever stopped to think that the reason I have a lot of possessions and a lot of things is because I simply can’t fill my life with children. That I wasn’t fortunate enough to have my baby 3 years ago, because he or she was gone before he or she even really properly existed. That I didn’t get pregnant “by accident” at 19 and spend most of my life travelling the world with my baby, bringing him up and spending quality time that I will never get back. I’ve spent years, by the way, wishing I could get pregnant “by accident”…. none of these things she even considers.

Sometimes  most of the time, I wish people could put themselves in my shoes, and actually feel what it’s like to be me and be going through this hell. Everything I have I would give up for a baby. I’m sure most, if not all, women who are experiencing infertility feel like this. That doesn’t stop us from feeling incredibly lonely and isolated.

It’s even harder when your partner doesn’t fully understand either.

They try, bless them, they really do, but I don’t really think men can ever feel what we feel, because they can’t carry children. They don’t have that innate instinct in them that makes their bodies feel the need to create and carry a child, or to mother a child. Mr Mad tries his best, he really does, and he’s an absolutely wonderful husband (to be!). But quite often he just doesn’t get it. Especially now that I’ve had surgery. He seems to think I am “fixed” – that the surgery was some miracle cure and now we will be able to get pregnant whenever we choose to. So now that’s a major issue too, because he doesn’t want to try anymore. Apparently it’s not the “right time”. Apparently we should start trying “next year after the wedding and our holidays that we’ve booked.” Obviously I can’t force him to try… but when I try to explain I just know that we won’t get pregnant within the next year anyway, he dismisses it and brushes it off. He doesn’t seem to understand how empty I feel, or how painful my need to be a mum really is. I don’t want to wait and prolong things again. I don’t care if I’m pregnant at my wedding. I don’t care if I have to cancel a holiday because I’m due to give birth. None of those things matter to me as much as having a baby… having a family… doing the one thing I have always wanted, above everything else in my life.

I just wish things would get easier, and that people would stop telling me, “it will happen soon, you’re young, you’ve got years yet.”

Like that makes any difference…

 

Chapter 1…

These past few days have been days of “firsts”…

The most important “first” was my first period…

Obviously not my first period EVER (I wish!!) but my first period since surgery.

I was warned by multiple people who have had the same (or similar) surgery to me, that the first period after surgery would be hell on earth, and they certainly weren’t lying!!

Yesterday I woke up in absolutely agony, thinking, “oh god, my uterus is trying to kill me, AGAIN!”

It got progressively worse throughout the day, despite painkillers and another first (the first bath since before my surgery!)

However, I am really trying to be positive.

It’s difficult because I really thought surgery would help go a long way to solving my pain, and at the moment it is really feeling like it hasn’t.

But… having read countless stories like mine, this doesn’t seem to be unusual so soon after surgery, and I’m hoping next month (well, firstly, that it well actually be next month and not two weeks like it has been for the past year) I won’t be in as much pain.

As a result of aforementioned first period, I am not really feeling much better. I am also incredibly bored, trying to rest and relax at home, it’s much more difficult than I ever imagined.

Anyway… let’s loop back, because this post is getting both boring and tedious, rather like my day to day life at the moment!

Another first… I’ve just ordered a pair of maternity jeans off eBay.

Yes, you read that right… maternity jeans!

Currently I am still HUGE, or rather, my stomach is still HUGE.

I am supposed to be visiting beautiful Paris with my best friend and her family at the end of July, and I am concerned I will still be huge when I travel. I currently can’t fit into any of my normal clothes and am slobbing around in pjs for most of the day. The only times I have been dressed in relatively ‘normal’ clothes have been the handful of times I’ve left the house, and even then I’ve been wearing a maxi dress or loose joggers. I am really trying to not feel negative about the fact that I look like I have a pregnancy bump when it’s the absolute opposite, and rather try to embrace the fact I am slowly getting better and this is part of the healing process. That being said, I am so uncomfortable and so nervous about looking awful in Paris, that I’ve succumbed to maternity jeans in a bit to be comfortable and look relatively nice too. Any other suggestions would be much appreciated, as we have a charity event to go to on the first evening as well, and I have no idea what I will wear to that!

I guess the fact I am focusing on these kinds of things means I am getting better, as I’m not in complete and total agony all day everyday like I have been.

Now, time to watch some more White Collar and wish Matt Bomer was A) Not gay and B) My future husband!!

The Biggest Wobble Yet…

Today I feel awful.

I honestly feel like I can’t go on anymore.

All my positivity has completely vanished out of me and I feel completely broken.

My body isn’t happy – I know this because I know my own body.

I am in agony.

I have tried to get back to normal and, every time, my body tells me “no” “You’re absolutely not ready yet, stop trying to push yourself. Go home, sleep and rest.”

Nobody told me recovery would be the hard part.

I thought I would have my surgery and I would get better.

Alright, I knew there would be a bit of time while my wounds healed.

But then I’d be back to normal – surely?

Well, not even normal, the normal I was before this goddamn illness stole who I was.

That’s the thing with endometriosis, and I’m honestly starting to wonder…

Do you ever go back to the way you were?

Do you ever have a ‘normal’ life again?

Does it ever truly go away?

I know there’s no cure.

But the consultant made it seem like I stood a chance of being okay again.

“There’s a 30% chance it will come back.”

That’s a statistic I thought I could live with.

I foresaw me getting my life back. I saw me being pain free and having a future.

Right now, currently, in this moment, my pain is worse than before I had surgery.

My superficial wounds seem to be healing okay, but my internal ones don’t feel like they’re healing at all.

My hormones are all over the place – worse than ever before.

My pain is worse than it was and I’m still dosed up on cocodamol (which was supposed to be a short term solution, and I’ve now been on it for 3 months).

Today I’ve completed the tiniest of tasks and this has resulted in me drenched in sweat, sitting on my sofa, unable to move, sobbing my eyes out.

This is what I’ve done today:

• Got up
• Had a shower
• Made my breakfast
• Ate my breakfast
• Watched Jeremy Kyle, This Morning, Loose Women and Judge Rinder
• Looked at some school work then realised my brain fog wouldn’t let me do anything productive
• Nipped out to the garden centre to buy some compost

Surely those don’t constitute strenuous tasks?

And it’s the same each time – I’m no better – there’s no marked improvement.

Since coming out of hospital a week last Friday I have left the house 3 times. One of those times was to be driven 5 minutes around the corner to my in laws house, where I ate lovely home cooked food and sat propped up on their sofa for 3 hours. Again, hardly strenuous tasks.

I’m petrified.

I am due back at work on Monday, and I literally have no idea how I’m going to teach for 5 hours a day when my body is like this.

I feel like I’m letting everyone down.

I’m part of a team and I haven’t been there to contribute for weeks.

I haven’t even been able to help them mark the piles of exam papers they undoubtedly have.

I feel like an awful, awful person. I am literally no use to anyone right now.

Everybody who has had this procedure span things in such a positive light. So much so, I thought I knew what was coming. I didn’t even hesitate signing that consent form. I thought I would be fine. In fact, I thought I would be more than fine, I thought I would be better. Now I’m wishing I’d just carried on dealing with the pain, because at least I was at work. At least I was doing something, instead of just being a huge pointless potato consuming ridiculous amounts of daytime TV and crying on my wonderful fiancé every time he gets home from work.

 

It’s okay to have a wobble…

Before I continue with this post, please know I am quintessentially, unequivocally and indisputably British. With this in mind, when I use the term “wobble” here, I do not mean it in the literal sense, I mean it in the very British sense of “having a moment” or “being upset for a short period of time in amongst feeling positive.”

Anyway…

Today I had a wobble, not whilst purchasing baby clothes, but after I got them home.

I should expand, shouldn’t I?

My hairdresser, who is much more than a hairdresser, leaves for maternity leave the week after next. I have my final appointment with her next Saturday.

This long-suffering woman has been colouring my hair, and being a rather poorly-paid therapist (on account of her clearly fulfilling two job roles in one, not because I’m making a dig at her employers and the wages they pay her, just to clear up any confusion!!) for the last ten years. We originally met when I was a weird 15 year old who had dyed her hair jet black, instantly regretted it, then unsuccessfully tried to lift the colour out of it. She promised me she would make my hair blonde again if it was the last thing she did – and she managed! The miracle-worker she is!!

She has listened to the ups and downs of my life, and I have listened to hers. This woman has become more of a friend than a hairdresser. So, when she announced she was pregnant, I couldn’t have been happier for her.

Today I picked up some gorgeous clothes, bibs etc for her little bundle’s imminent arrival.

Surprisingly, I enjoyed picking out the little blue sleep suits, hats, tiny mittens and socks. I thought, given my current circumstances, I would be really upset doing this. I wasn’t. I was still filled with some of the hope I had yesterday.

Normally this is the point in the story where the author would be dramatic and change course. I’m not going to do that. Things didn’t all come crashing down around me. I just had a wobble.

And that was all it was. A wobble.

I brought the clothes home, and I sat looking at them, coming to the realisation that, yet again, these gorgeous baby clothes were not for my baby, they were for someone else’s. That there would not be a baby in my household to wear the clothes. It would not be me waking up in the middle of the night, eyes bleary, completely exhausted, to experience those tender moments feeding my baby.

But it passed.

The wobble passed.

I didn’t spiral into huge hiccupy sobs.

I didn’t even shed one single, tiny tear.

I took a deep breath, I pushed those sort of thoughts to the back of my mind, and I wrapped the presents.

Out of sight, out of mind.

So to speak, anyway.

Just because I don’t have my bundle of joy yet doesn’t mean everybody else isn’t allowed to have theirs.

Just because sometimes I am unhappy because I am yet to have a successful pregnancy doesn’t mean I can’t be happy for those that do. Particularly those people closest to me who deserve happiness and a healthy baby.

One day it will be me, one day Mr Mad and I will have our mini-Mad and the last thing we would want is for somebody to feel sad because of that.