Sticky Date Pudding

Yes.

Yes that title is horrendously innuendo laden.

I've always been a terrible sleeper.

I am much more of a night owl than a morning person, and I find it extremely hard to get up in the morning.

This isn't due to lack of routine or sheer laziness. I just genuinely cannot seem to function properly before 11am.

I could go to bed early, with the best intentions of getting a good nights sleep, but chances are I won't get to sleep before 2am.

The fact that I am enduring horrible night sweats and hot flashes during disgustingly muggy nights only increases the discomfort levels, and in turn, my ability to get a decent nights sleep.

I've tried sleeping in the nude, with cold wheat packs, with the window open, with nothing but a sheet, limbs hanging out of the side of the bed, flipping pillows, cool flannels.

It doesn't matter... I still wake up hot, bothered and with a sticky date.

(Mmmm, sweaty butt. Aren't I just the epitome of beautiful?)

I've started to notice that lately, around two in the afternoon, I just crash - the joint aches and back pain will increase and I feel exhausted.

Of course I push on and try to fight it off, thinking that, surely if I am this tired now, by the time I go to bed, I will be absolutely shattered, then HEY, PRESTO. Decent sleep.

Ah.

No.

It totally doesn't work that way and it is beyond frustrating.

I genuinely cannot remember the last time I had a good nights sleep.

In other news, I finally found those BGP's I keep talking about, and finally put them on and laid a complaint against the incompetent muppet of a doctor I have had the pleasure of dealing with on more occassions than I would like.

I heard back from the Health and Disabilities Commission (where I laid the complaint) and was told they were currently investigating my claims and that I could anticipate hearing back from them in approximately six weeks.

In approximately six weeks, I will also be sitting down with my specialist, discussing where to from here.

If that's not the discussion that is had. Then consider yourselves warned when I say all hell will break loose.

I want my life back.

So badly.

Today was ROUND FIVE of my Zoladex, and I am currently sitting here feeling very sorry for myself, with a puncture wound in my belly and a headache that would knock ol' Cassius Clay for six, but I have turned the brightness of my screen right down, sitting in darkness and silence and enlightening you all with my tales of woe.

Don't you feel special?

The fundraising hasn't taken off quite as much as I would've hoped, but I'm hoping that with your help, we can reach my target.

So, please, if you're able to, make a donation... If you can't (in fact, even if you can) please post this link on your blog, Facebook page... Whatever means of social media you prefer. Just please, don't make me get on all fours and beg for it.

My Give a Little page: Lipstick, Ink and Disease in the Pink... Go... Click now. $1.00, $10.00, $100.00 - It doesn't matter, it all makes a difference 

As always my lovelies,

Love and Sunshine
(not that there's any of that here today in Wellington. Summer? Pfft. Fat chance)

Serenity

xx

*NB: Once upon a time, a long time ago, getting on all fours and begging for it was for recreational purposes.......Yet another thing Endo has taken away from me.

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.