A total pain in the arse

... It's a bloody shit topic to be writing about.

And yes.
Me being the Queen of Innuendo that I am, I am being completely literal.

So, for the last few months (roughly four), I have been experiencing the odd bout of rectal bleeding along with my 'motions'.
I had already been to have this checked out once before and was told the likely cause was a hemorrhoid which is likely to have been caused due to one of my many episodes of constipation which is brought about as a result of the pain relief I am taking daily (for the most part).

About two weeks ago, after what can only be described as a completely hectic month, I wound up back in hospital - My pain was absolutely ferocious and despite having a severe case of 'The Runs' (most likely caused by not looking after myself properly and being stressed to the max), I was experiencing a horrendous amounts of blood every time I went to the bathroom.

I'm sorry - Too far?

It was honestly terrifying.

Fearing that something was seriously amiss and not having the ability, or desire, to continue struggling by myself at home, off to the A&E I went.
It'd had been a good six or so weeks since my last decent hospital stay, and I was quite proud of the fact.

It didn't take long for it to turn to custard and for me to lose the plot though, as once I had been admitted and I was greeted in the morning by my specialist, I was told something that sent me spiralling out of control and deeper into myself and my depression.

I was told that, given we had had six months of Zoladex (complete with night sweats, hot flashes, horrendous mood swings, weight gain, skin deterioration...) and not had a positive result from it, that his instinct was that it isn't Endo that we're dealing with.
Did he give me an alternative?

No.

Me: (through burning tears of anger, hurt and frustration) "So, let me get this straight. You're basically telling me now that we're back at square one. That we don't have an answer and that there's nothing more you're going to do?"
Him: "Unfortunately, yes"

Wait. You cannot be serious?
That's all you have to say to me?
After all the times you fobbed me off to your gang of muppets.
After all those times  you've left me laying in a hospital bed, doing nothing constructive.
That's all you're going to say?
"Unfortunately, yes".

It's a good thing he left when he did, because my tears soon turned into a rage of menopausal fury, and I would have donkey kicked him in the throat had he still been standing in front of me.

From the fury came despair and I couldn't help but fall apart at the seams.
The seams that I had so tentatively tried to hold together, burst like a dam and I couldn't for the life of me control the emotion that flooded out of me.
Massive gulps of air, as if I was desperately trying to suck back in some of the pride that I was losing with each tear, followed by loud, heaving sobs that I couldn't hold back.

I tried to pull myself together so that I could relay this latest bit of information with The Lad, but within moments, I was back to the squeaking, sobbing mess that I had been just moments before.

I felt so defeated.
I realise that I've said that before... But I don't think I truly understood the meaning of the word until recently.

It just seemed as though, despite everything I had been trying to do was all for nought, and now I was back at the drawing board, not knowing where to go from here.

Since I was discharged from the hospital, I have really, really been struggling with my depression.
There have been a lot of contributing factors, but being put back in the 'unknown' has certainly been the biggest.
There's been a lot of stuff happening, which should be exciting and fun and happy - But I've just been in this perpetual state of the 'Fuck-Its'... So much that I haven't been able to get excited or be happy about all the amazing things that are going on around me.

Instead, I've been feeling sorry for myself, worrying that I'm going to be left behind and forgotten.
I worry that, because I seemingly have no control over my situation and that I can't plan for a week from now (let alone months) and that I have so much baggage and extra stress that nobody else should have to deal with, that sooner or later people are going to realising this, leave me and I'm going to wind up bitter and alone.

I couldn't find work.
I haven't been able to find a house to live in, because nobody wants and unemployed sickness beneficiary with a child living with them and I can't afford to live alone...

So, I got fed up. I got angry.
I got rid of the 'Fuck-Its' and turned it into 'Fuck-Yous', and out of spite towards everyone and the world around me, I ramped up my search and started applying for every-single-job I felt I was capable of doing... On average, applying for at least eight jobs a week.

Day after day, my inbox was filled with emails stating I had not been successful, and day after day, I became more and more frustrated.

Then, within a couple of hours of an application to a particularly successful and renowned salon and clinic here in Wellington, I received an email asking to come in for an interview.
That interview turned into a rather informal trial.
I was then asked to come in fo a full day to do a 'proper' trial, where I worked my makeup magic on a Mother of the Bride, two Bridesmaids, performed nail services on another Bridesmaid and the salon manager and gave the current beauty therapist a facial.

Tomorrow... I go in to discuss hours, pay and all the other semantics associated with a new contract.

I'm excited!
I'm so happy to be going back into work, especially in such a well established salon doing stuff that I am passionate about and really, really good at.
I'm also dubious. I wonder if I'm rushing into things. Whether I am, in fact, capable of working.

All this happening in the space of a week, as a result of me getting angry with the world and sticking my middle finger up to it.

You know what they say... God works in mysterious ways.

I have appointments to attend on Monday, one with the Chroic Pain team and also my Gynae specialist.
I know exactly what I'm going into my specialist appointment to say - I will be putting my foot down. Well and truly.
I have a gut instinct as to what is going on, and if he refuses to acknowledge it as a possibility and investigate further, I will be left with no option than to fork out the big bucks (ugh, that just made my pocket wince) and seek advice from a specialist at a private treatment centre who I have heard nothing but wonderful things about.

With all this being said.
I'm claiming my life back. Finally
Endo has had the best of me these past five years... These last seven months especially.


It's time to bring back the 'old' me... Bring back the 'real' me.

Bring it on.



Love and Sunshine,


Serenity
xx

(P.S: It was a hemmaroid causing the bleeding. I nicknamed it 'Hemi' - Because it's a males name, and males are known to be a pain in the ass at the best of times)

High noon with Endo

Today sucks.

I want today gone.

It is currently 12:27 in the afternoon and I have been attempting to cope with the ferocious pains which have been thrown at me for the past three days.
As I type this I am sitting in a hot bath, in the darkness, listening to classical piano in a desperate bid to rid myself of this horrendous discomfort.

As it stands, I'm not sure which is hotter.
The tears of frustration sliding down my cheeks?
The white hot fury which is coursing through my veins in retaliation to succumbing to this awful disease once again?

The temperature of the water is undeniably hot.
The hot flashes that keep plaguing me certainly don't help.

Is it a combination of all of the above?

Why am I so seemingly incapable of getting a hold of things and coping?
It's certainly not for want of trying.

The Tramadol isn't helping.
The Sevredol isn't helping.
The tri-cyclic antidepressants that they have me on aren't helping.

The heat packs, meditating, diet changes, lifestyle changes, yoga, homeopathy, reiki, acupuncture, regular massage or immersing myself in other activities hasn't helped.

Why does nothing help?

I am sick of putting on the brave face.
I'm even more sick of feeling sorry for myself - and you know that's bad, because I very rarely allow myself to do so.

My hospital bag is packed.
I just have to make the call.
I desperately don't want to.

I don't want another trip to the A&E where they announce it's just another acute exacerbation of my pain, where I will then be taken up to Gynae, only for them to tell me that there's nothing more they can offer me, but that they will endeavor to get me as comfortable as possible.

I get so embarrassed by every trip I make to the front desk of the emergency department, every time I have to re-explain my situation to the triage nurse, the registrar on ED who happens to be lumped with me.
It makes me feel like shit.
I worry they they don't take me seriously because I've been in there so often.
That they think I'm some kind of hypochondriac or attention seeker, or a druggie who wants morphine.

I know I'm none of those aforementioned things.

But, given how calm an exterior I portray, it must be hard for them to believe I am a 10/10 in the pain scale when I am able to carry on a conversation, with only a wince every now and then.
I refuse to play the role of the screaming damsel in distress - I've played that role before. It does nobody any good.

I really don't want to have to become Growly Ren and start demanding they do something constructive, because I don't feel as though I should have to - if I'm in there regularly (almost routinely) with the same issues, only heightened, then surely they should be putting their large student debts to use and realize that there is an issue at hand which needs addressing, and that the means by which they've been addressing them needs to be reviewed because clearly they aren't doing the business like they're supposed to!

Aaaand *breeeaaath*

I know what I need to do, so I shall leave this here and put my BGPs (Big Girl Panties) on and go do it.

Ugh.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Whoa Nelly...

I can't say I am particularly fond of Nelly... And not "I'm like a bird" Nelly.

I'm talking about pants-down-around-his-arse-bandaid-on-his-cheek-do-rag Nelly.

But, never before have I been able to relate to such eloquently written Hip-Hop songs. Until now.

It's getting hot in here (so hot) so take off all your clothes

I am, getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off

It's getting hot in here (so hot) so take off all your clothes

I am, getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off

 Uh, uh, uh, let it hang all out

(And good gracious, my arse is more than just a little bit bodacious, even if I do say so myself)

I would never have regarded him as a lyrical genius before, but nowadays, I swear on Ryan Goslings abs - A chorus has never resonated with me so much.

Now. Lets just clarify. I'm not a sweaty person.

I've never had issues with excessive, or even noteable, for that matter, perspiration.

No.

I'm a lady.

I don't sweat.

I glisten.

These days, however, the sweat is pouring off me. I feel disgusting. I feel like a Swamp Monster of some description.
I just seem to sweat like a whore in church... All. The. Time.

I live out the vast majority of my days swanning around topless and in shorts because I cannot handle the feeling of shirts clinging to me. It's unbearable.
Even just having that little bit of fabric from my bra strap clinging to my back is more than I can stand - But, because I want to maintain at least some level of dignity (as well as sparing the eyesight of those around me), I leave my bra on.

I was warned of the possibilty of night sweats, and I have suffered from them in a minor capacity, but I was not prepared for that consistent presence of this awful sticky feeling.

Now, whenever I have a hot flash, it's accompanied by a sweat goatee, a glistening forehead and those delightful beads of perspiration that run down your spine and down your cleavage.
I'm now more determined than ever to lose weight, as I am sick of drying sweat from the cracks and crevices of my womanly shape - This is the one time I would actually gladly consider taking on a waif like appearance.

Nothing more attractive than zebra stripes on your shirt, caused by the shirt itself being folded under your boobs.

So, if you'll excuse me. I must go take my third cold shower today, change into my fourth shirt of the day, wipe down the couch and lay down a towel and turn the air-con onto the 'Arctic' setting.

Menopause.


Sure is glamorous.