Women of a certain age that have not had children should be prepared for the consequences. So quoth my generally lovely doctor when confronted by my now lengthy wailing about issues in my pelvic area. Yeah, right dear – I’d just have had a nervous breakdown from the overwhelming responsibility of screwing up someone else’s life. Some people really shouldn’t have kids. Trust me.
However, it took chronic anaemia to force the issue. A couple of physical collapses helped. You know, that grinding, fist clenchingly awful pain in your groin that has you walking like there’s a grotesquely full nappy sack suspended between your legs. First I tried the pills. Mefanamic acid was a delight – did everything it said on the tin. Sadly, it also did a whole lot more and when my vocal chords began to swell somewhat alarmingly, the pharmacist had the heebies, demanded I stop taking them immediately and sent me packing back to the GP. Result: allergy to ibuprofen confirmed. Not good for an asthmatic.
I have odd reactions to medications. So I switched to limited doses of codeine. This worked well. Too well. Dear god, it works so well. I live in a very happy place on codeine. Shame I’m incapable of coherent thought or anything remotely normal on even the smallest doses. But oooooooh so haaaaaapppppyyyyy! Fluffy! There is the slight issue of it’s addictive nature of course, but I suspect my disorientation is more likely to have me flattened by a truck.
So the good Doctor packed me off for an ultra sound. Fine…I slurped the litre of water, clenched my bladder for an hour and then wheeled in to see a delightful Irish lady who had me laughing so hard she had to pause the scan. Mind, she did threaten me with an internal, which clenched my humour up rapidly. That and the search for my ‘missing’ right ovary. After a fairly graphic conversation that would have the male half of the population running gibbering for the hills, the diagnosis was official: Miss Havisham and Estella have set up home in my womb. Miss H being a big, womb curdling cow bag of a fibroid, full of malevolently mutated oestrogen apparently thwarted by a life of childlessness. Estella being the dinky one off to the right. No wonder that ovary had gone into hibernation with those two evil bags on the horizon.
Next week I meet the good Doctor to discuss action. Now if it were up to me, Miss H and her little leech would be lasered off until eternity. This being the NHS I will have to work through the various useless alternatives and barbaric methods of treatment that had to be devised by a bloke. Hot wax to the womb anyone? (Don’t believe me, then google endrometrial ablation). And the apparent saviour of all pre menopausal women everywhere – the mirena coil. Oh no, mate. That ain’t happening. I’ve been told by too many lady doctors that my various parts are ‘shy’, ‘hidden’, ‘bendy’. No one – but no one – is attempting to implant something with sharp edges in my dainty lady areas. I appreciate the good Doctor will repeat the phrase ‘I’m on transmit but no one is receiving’ at me in his plaintive way as usual. Mate, as a doctor, you’re a damn fine human being. But you are also very conservative. And I am not having anything I cannot control myself stuck anywhere up my nether regions. Call me a control freak, call me stubborn – I don’t care. I’d rather keep Havisham, a hot water bottle and the codeine than have your plastic parts emitting their radiation inside me. Or harpooning a fallopian tube. If they can ever find one.
Isn’t encroaching cronedom grand? I’m now off to hide under a mound of feather pillows for eternity. With my hot water bottle.