About a year ago, I made a promise to myself. I promised that if everything turned out OK, I would write this post. And it did, so I am.
People who know me might know that since she was born, Moo, my seven-year-old daughter, is not terribly brilliant at not falling over. This is the story of that, which I'm writing so that maybe one day, when another parent is trying to find information on the Big Bad Internet, they might come across this, and feel a little reassured.
Anyway, for background: when Moo was a baby, I noticed that her left foot pointed inwards. I pointed this out to health visitors and doctors, and nobody seemed terribly concerned about it. After all, babies do a lot of growing, and most of these types of things sort themselves out, often before anyone's even noticed it wasn't quite right to begin with. We were referred to physio and told to do some stretches, and to have yearly checkups.
To cut a long story short, it didn't get better. It became more noticeable as she started to walk. Because her foot was pointing inwards, when she wasn't paying attention, or going too fast, she would literally trip over her own feet. We went back to paediatric orthopedics and the physio, who thought she was likely to grow out of it.
And then last year, Moo fractured her foot when she was hopping. I am still not sure why she was hopping. When she had her cast taken off, the doctor checked her over and tested her reflexes. He beckoned me over and asked, "Does she always do that?" I looked at Moo's foot. It was jiggling. I told her to stop it. The doctor told me that she wasn't doing it, that her foot was bouncing up and down on its own, because he'd smacked the bottom it. He explained that this was called "clonus", and it was usually an indication of some kind of problem with the spine.
Oh.
"I haven't worried you, have I?"
Well, do you know what, yes, actually you have. You've just told me my daughter may have something wrong with her spine. "Oh no, it's fine," was what I actually said, because I never think of the right things to say or questions to ask at the time.
So I trotted home and, as instructed, made an appointment with Moo's physio, who would be able to refer her to a neurologist.
And then I did what no-one should ever do.
I consulted Dr Google.
And I FREAKED OUT. Because you do, when you discover that the thing your little girl has is often a sign of stroke, cerebral palsy, multiple sclerosis and all manner of other things, and you can't find anything that says anything remotely reassuring. I managed to calm myself down by rationalising that even if she did have a serious condition, she obviously had some kind of mild version of it, as she is generally a ludicrously healthy child in all other respects. So there was nothing else to do but push the horrible, scary thoughts out of our minds, and wait.
And the waiting is over. Moo has seen a very lovely neurologist and had an MRI. In a small area of her brain, the part that controls her motor control on her left side, something happened, probably during late pregnancy or birth, which damaged the tiny blood vessels and caused some of her brain tissue to scar. It means the nerves had to form around it, which affects her reflexes and muscle control in her left leg. It's nothing that's going to get worse, at least not in neurological terms. She may have problems as she approaches puberty as her bones grow faster than her muscles can stretch, and I don't know yet how big those problems might be. But she doesn't have any kind of scary-sounding condition, nothing degenerative or life-limiting, nothing that's going to affect any other part of her body or mind.
And that's it. For now, at least, that's the end of the story. The worst that's happened to Moo is a lot of grazed knees, and having to be nil-by-mouth for the MRI (we opted for a general anaesthetic - no way can that child lie still for half an hour). She's pretty much fine. It's not nothing, as so many people tried to tell me when she was a baby, but neither is it as bad as the internet would have had me believe. So if you've found this because you've been desperately googling "my child has clonus", and everything else is freaking you out, then hopefully this has offered you a little bit of information and comfort.
And if you've found this because you've got a typo in your Star Wars search, may the Force be with you.
Wednesday 16 November 2016
Tuesday 21 June 2016
Let Them All In
I have one opinion in common with Nigel Farage (that I know of, anyway. I mean, I've never asked him if he agrees that 1989 is one of the finest pop albums of recent years, or if he thinks coriander tastes like soap). We both believe that while the UK remains in the EU, we will not be able to put a limit on EU immigration. But, unlike Nigel Farage, I don't care.
There are still some people who insist that "we're not allowed to talk about immigration". I don't know which rock these people have been living under, because it seems that that's all we've been talking about for years. And God, it's been depressing. Brendan Cox – widower of Jo Cox, the Labour MP who was so brutally murdered last week, it seems for being a "traitor to Britain" – wrote recently that mainstream politicians have been "clueless on how to deal with the public debate". How right he was. After years of allowing the idea that immigration was definitely a Bad Thing to flourish unchecked, the politicians in favour of Remain are now finding out exactly how badly this is biting them on the arse. They find themselves forced to undo the perception they themselves helped to foster, by throwing around numbers and figures about how much immigrants contribute to the public purse. But if I've learned anything about public debate in this country, it's that facts don't win arguments. There's always another number, somewhere, which aligns more closely with what we want to believe. Years of abuse and misuse of statistics by politicians and the media means that it's so hard to discern fact from near-fact from fiction, so we just don't bother.
So instead, let's go back to basics. Let's stop talking in numbers. Let's stop reducing human beings to net contributions. Let's talk about the principle of the thing.
I believe in freedom of movement. It's a beautiful thing. I love the idea that we are not trapped by the circumstances of our birth, the idea that we are free to make our own destiny, in a place of our choosing. Where we are born says nothing about out choices, only those of our parents. It says nothing about the kind of person we want to be and the way we want to live. Many people, probably most people, feel a tie to where the place they were born, and are happy there. Many people feel the pull of elsewhere, but within their own country. And then there are others. The people who feel that their future lies elsewhere. The dreamers. The risk-takers. We probably all know at least one – that person who upped sticks and went to Canada, Australia, France, Spain. I wish I was that brave, we say. Living the dream, we say.
I believe that people are people, all over the world. You get unpleasant people, nasty people, downright heinous people, but the vast majority are good people. People who just want to live, love and work in the way, and in a place, that will make them happy.
It's not racist or xenophobic to talk about immigration, as we are constantly told. And it's not. Look, I'm doing it right now. But the way we talk about immigration? When we cannot extend the same benefit of the doubt we give to the person who wants to leave Britain to the person who wants to come here, when we instead imply that their purposes are less wholesome, more sinister – can we really say that there is no prejudice there?
Immigration is going to keep happening. The world gets smaller every day. We are only ever a click away from someone with whom we might not share a continent, but we can share ideas, support and cat memes. I can get to Paris more easily and more cheaply than I can get to Plymouth. Ideas and people cross borders and barriers, and we cannot stop it. And we shouldn't stop it.
When we open our eyes and our arms to people with different experiences of the world, we become richer for it. And yes, communities change. But communities change because communities change. Nothing stays the same. Our lives are influenced by so many things, it is ludicrous to lay all the blame on some people who didn't used to live here but now do. Change brings us new experiences, new ideas, new traditions to love. Perhaps some of our old ones are lost. But we can always protect the things in our culture that matter. We protect them by shouting out loud, "Here are the things that we love. Come and celebrate them with us!". We don't protect them by putting up big spiky walls.
Yes, freedom of movement can cause problems. But most things cause problems in some way or another. When we find something that causes problems, but we think it's worth having, then we need to do our best to mitigate those problems. This is where our successive governments have failed us so badly. Our infrastructure is not some fixed, finite mass that can only cope with so many people. It can be grown, invested in. And it hasn't been. Our public services are not crumbling under the weight of a load of foreign people. They are crumbling because they have been left to rot. Our communities are not divided because people were born elsewhere. They are divided because it suited those in power to turn us against each other.
There has been so much ugliness lately. I don't know if there is more to come. I can only hope there isn't. Let's build bridges, not walls.
There are still some people who insist that "we're not allowed to talk about immigration". I don't know which rock these people have been living under, because it seems that that's all we've been talking about for years. And God, it's been depressing. Brendan Cox – widower of Jo Cox, the Labour MP who was so brutally murdered last week, it seems for being a "traitor to Britain" – wrote recently that mainstream politicians have been "clueless on how to deal with the public debate". How right he was. After years of allowing the idea that immigration was definitely a Bad Thing to flourish unchecked, the politicians in favour of Remain are now finding out exactly how badly this is biting them on the arse. They find themselves forced to undo the perception they themselves helped to foster, by throwing around numbers and figures about how much immigrants contribute to the public purse. But if I've learned anything about public debate in this country, it's that facts don't win arguments. There's always another number, somewhere, which aligns more closely with what we want to believe. Years of abuse and misuse of statistics by politicians and the media means that it's so hard to discern fact from near-fact from fiction, so we just don't bother.
So instead, let's go back to basics. Let's stop talking in numbers. Let's stop reducing human beings to net contributions. Let's talk about the principle of the thing.
I believe in freedom of movement. It's a beautiful thing. I love the idea that we are not trapped by the circumstances of our birth, the idea that we are free to make our own destiny, in a place of our choosing. Where we are born says nothing about out choices, only those of our parents. It says nothing about the kind of person we want to be and the way we want to live. Many people, probably most people, feel a tie to where the place they were born, and are happy there. Many people feel the pull of elsewhere, but within their own country. And then there are others. The people who feel that their future lies elsewhere. The dreamers. The risk-takers. We probably all know at least one – that person who upped sticks and went to Canada, Australia, France, Spain. I wish I was that brave, we say. Living the dream, we say.
I believe that people are people, all over the world. You get unpleasant people, nasty people, downright heinous people, but the vast majority are good people. People who just want to live, love and work in the way, and in a place, that will make them happy.
It's not racist or xenophobic to talk about immigration, as we are constantly told. And it's not. Look, I'm doing it right now. But the way we talk about immigration? When we cannot extend the same benefit of the doubt we give to the person who wants to leave Britain to the person who wants to come here, when we instead imply that their purposes are less wholesome, more sinister – can we really say that there is no prejudice there?
Immigration is going to keep happening. The world gets smaller every day. We are only ever a click away from someone with whom we might not share a continent, but we can share ideas, support and cat memes. I can get to Paris more easily and more cheaply than I can get to Plymouth. Ideas and people cross borders and barriers, and we cannot stop it. And we shouldn't stop it.
When we open our eyes and our arms to people with different experiences of the world, we become richer for it. And yes, communities change. But communities change because communities change. Nothing stays the same. Our lives are influenced by so many things, it is ludicrous to lay all the blame on some people who didn't used to live here but now do. Change brings us new experiences, new ideas, new traditions to love. Perhaps some of our old ones are lost. But we can always protect the things in our culture that matter. We protect them by shouting out loud, "Here are the things that we love. Come and celebrate them with us!". We don't protect them by putting up big spiky walls.
Yes, freedom of movement can cause problems. But most things cause problems in some way or another. When we find something that causes problems, but we think it's worth having, then we need to do our best to mitigate those problems. This is where our successive governments have failed us so badly. Our infrastructure is not some fixed, finite mass that can only cope with so many people. It can be grown, invested in. And it hasn't been. Our public services are not crumbling under the weight of a load of foreign people. They are crumbling because they have been left to rot. Our communities are not divided because people were born elsewhere. They are divided because it suited those in power to turn us against each other.
There has been so much ugliness lately. I don't know if there is more to come. I can only hope there isn't. Let's build bridges, not walls.
Monday 9 May 2016
Grains of Sand
I put my hand into the pocket of the blue gingham dress that
I’m about to iron, so that she can look tidy for at least five minutes, until
that magic happens and I turn around and suddenly she is dirty and dishevelled
before the school bell even rings.
I pull out a handful of sand. I smile. Here is the evidence
of her secret life, the one that I – who carried, birthed and fed her with my
own body – have no part of and do not understand. The one that begins when she
races away from me across the yard, and ends when she greets me six hours later
with a hug and a model made from old tissue boxes and glitter.
And for a moment, though it is not like me, I feel sad. For
the time is coming when that secret life of hers will become darker and more
complex. When she will bring home not handfuls of nature, but secrets and
slights, triumphs and hurts, and I will not find them by putting a hand into a
pocket. Perhaps she will not share them with me at all. And all I can do is
pray to a god that I do not believe in that she will be able to navigate this
strange and wonderful world that is sometimes so difficult and so cruel, even –
and perhaps especially – for bold, brave girls like her.
I iron the dress. I whisper my prayers. I love her with my
whole heart.
Thursday 25 February 2016
Blogging my period: Day 8
CONTENT WARNING: PERIODS. Obv. There Will Be Blood. And possibly other
things that you might not particularly want to read about. In which
case, my advice is: don't read it. And if you do read it, and come
across something you don't like, don't come crying to me about how you
read something you didn't want to read even though I very clearly warned
you you would read about if you continued reading.
Oh yes, blog. Almost forgot. I've been doing actual work for the first time in two months today, so it kind of slipped my mind. Also, my period is boring today. I'm pretty sure that there are plenty of people who think it's boring every day, but today it is especially dull. I am bleeding a bit. It is neither especially heavy nor especially light. Although, now I come to think of it, it is very dark, and I'm not entirely sure it's always this dark. Hmm. Weird. Probably just another episode in the never-ending saga of Thou Shalt Not Get To Know Thine Own Periods Ha Ha Ha.
I have spent too long at this computer today and it appears to have sent me a little bit mad. Sorry, I'll do better tomorrow. Probably.
Oh yes, blog. Almost forgot. I've been doing actual work for the first time in two months today, so it kind of slipped my mind. Also, my period is boring today. I'm pretty sure that there are plenty of people who think it's boring every day, but today it is especially dull. I am bleeding a bit. It is neither especially heavy nor especially light. Although, now I come to think of it, it is very dark, and I'm not entirely sure it's always this dark. Hmm. Weird. Probably just another episode in the never-ending saga of Thou Shalt Not Get To Know Thine Own Periods Ha Ha Ha.
I have spent too long at this computer today and it appears to have sent me a little bit mad. Sorry, I'll do better tomorrow. Probably.
Wednesday 24 February 2016
Blogging my period: Day 7
CONTENT WARNING: PERIODS. Obv. There Will Be Blood. And possibly other
things that you might not particularly want to read about. In which
case, my advice is: don't read it. And if you do read it, and come
across something you don't like, don't come crying to me about how you
read something you didn't want to read even though I very clearly warned
you you would read about if you continued reading.
Day 3 of my period is here. This used to be a source of woe, but for reasons unknown, it's no longer a horrible heavy day. So just a relatively normal day, except I have to change my Mooncup every now and then.
I love my Mooncup. I first heard about them during my addicted-to-Babycentre days. You can discuss anything and everything on a parenting forum and nobody bats an eyelid, including your method for collecting your menses, should you wish. And they wished. Freed from the shackles of normal conversational propriety, people sang the praises of the Mooncup until I was more than a little intrigued. I was already involved in a hate-hate affair with tampons, due to the fact that I needed three different types to get through the week, and even then they weren't really up to the job on some days. I was also getting queasy about the amount of stuff I was sending to landfill, given that I had two children in disposable nappies, in addition to the tampon-mountain I was getting through each month. Plus, I'm a cheapskate and someone told me it would save me money.
So, I bought one, trying not to feel irrationally insulted about the fact that, as someone who has both over thirty and had given birth vaginally (twice), I in no way qualified for the smaller size. And I was instantly (or almost instantly, once I'd cut the stupid stalk off and got used to the weird suction sound) a convert. Yes, it's a bit of a faff sometimes, especially if you need to empty it and you're not in easy reach of a toilet with a sink next to it (you can take a bottle of water into the toilet with you, but to be honest I find it easier to just go and find somewhere that has a sink). Yes, it gets messy if you're bleeding quite heavily. Yes, sometimes it won't open up properly and you end up taking it out and putting it back in about twenty times while wanting to cry. And yes, it's annoying and awkward when your children burst in on you when you're trying to change it and cry "MAMMY! What are you doing to your BUM!?!". But despite all of that, I would still never go back. Mooncups don't smell as awful as tampons and towels can. They don't feel as awful as tampons and towels can when they're totally full. You don't have to try and shoehorn them into a bin that's so full that the little flap thing doesn't work anymore. You don't have to worry about all that crap sitting in a pile somewhere until the end of time. It's brilliant at the end of your period, when you're hardly bleeding at all, but don't want to wear a towel or pantyliner, or a tampon that will be an absolute bitch when it comes out because it's too dry. And if you're weird like me, it's actually kind of interesting seeing the exact volume of blood you're losing. They even have little markers on to tell you (which is how I definitely knew that my periods were officially heavier than normal, rather than thinking they were but also worrying that perhaps I was just overreacting).
So, if you've been thinking about trying a Mooncup, but feeling unsure, DO IT! They're ace, and then you can feel all smug about you're saving the planet and your pennies. And here's a tip - Zizzi's have toilets with sinks. And really good calamari :)
Day 3 of my period is here. This used to be a source of woe, but for reasons unknown, it's no longer a horrible heavy day. So just a relatively normal day, except I have to change my Mooncup every now and then.
I love my Mooncup. I first heard about them during my addicted-to-Babycentre days. You can discuss anything and everything on a parenting forum and nobody bats an eyelid, including your method for collecting your menses, should you wish. And they wished. Freed from the shackles of normal conversational propriety, people sang the praises of the Mooncup until I was more than a little intrigued. I was already involved in a hate-hate affair with tampons, due to the fact that I needed three different types to get through the week, and even then they weren't really up to the job on some days. I was also getting queasy about the amount of stuff I was sending to landfill, given that I had two children in disposable nappies, in addition to the tampon-mountain I was getting through each month. Plus, I'm a cheapskate and someone told me it would save me money.
So, I bought one, trying not to feel irrationally insulted about the fact that, as someone who has both over thirty and had given birth vaginally (twice), I in no way qualified for the smaller size. And I was instantly (or almost instantly, once I'd cut the stupid stalk off and got used to the weird suction sound) a convert. Yes, it's a bit of a faff sometimes, especially if you need to empty it and you're not in easy reach of a toilet with a sink next to it (you can take a bottle of water into the toilet with you, but to be honest I find it easier to just go and find somewhere that has a sink). Yes, it gets messy if you're bleeding quite heavily. Yes, sometimes it won't open up properly and you end up taking it out and putting it back in about twenty times while wanting to cry. And yes, it's annoying and awkward when your children burst in on you when you're trying to change it and cry "MAMMY! What are you doing to your BUM!?!". But despite all of that, I would still never go back. Mooncups don't smell as awful as tampons and towels can. They don't feel as awful as tampons and towels can when they're totally full. You don't have to try and shoehorn them into a bin that's so full that the little flap thing doesn't work anymore. You don't have to worry about all that crap sitting in a pile somewhere until the end of time. It's brilliant at the end of your period, when you're hardly bleeding at all, but don't want to wear a towel or pantyliner, or a tampon that will be an absolute bitch when it comes out because it's too dry. And if you're weird like me, it's actually kind of interesting seeing the exact volume of blood you're losing. They even have little markers on to tell you (which is how I definitely knew that my periods were officially heavier than normal, rather than thinking they were but also worrying that perhaps I was just overreacting).
So, if you've been thinking about trying a Mooncup, but feeling unsure, DO IT! They're ace, and then you can feel all smug about you're saving the planet and your pennies. And here's a tip - Zizzi's have toilets with sinks. And really good calamari :)
Tuesday 23 February 2016
Blogging my period: Day 6
CONTENT WARNING: PERIODS. Obv. There Will Be Blood. And possibly other
things that you might not particularly want to read about. In which
case, my advice is: don't read it. And if you do read it, and come
across something you don't like, don't come crying to me about how you
read something you didn't want to read even though I very clearly warned
you you would read about if you continued reading.
Ah, Day 2. The day I look forward to all month.
EXTRA CONTENT WARNING: If you're already feeling a little bit iffy about this blog, and have already had a few 'Ooh, TMI' moments, then I strongly suggest you stop reading right now.
When my periods came back after having Child No. 2, they were HEAVY. Before the eight-years of chemically controlled ones, and the brief spells just before and after Child No. 1, they were fairly heavy at times, but nothing like as bad as this. On the second and third days of my periods, I would bleed A LOT. Seriously. Super tampons were done after about two hours. Eventually I switched to a Mooncup. That was no match for it either, but at least a leaking Mooncup doesn't feel quite as disgusting as a leaking tampon (does anything feel as disgusting as a leaking tampon?). If ever I saw an advert for sanitary protection featuring women in white trousers leaping about, I felt a very strong urge to hurl something at it; I was worried about walking too fast, never mind rollerskating in cycling shorts. At night, I'd wear my Mooncup, plus a sanitary towel, plus an extra pair of pants to hold it all in place, then my thickest pyjama bottoms, and even then I couldn't be sure I wouldn't wake up to stained sheets (you all think I'm really weird now, don't you?). It was, in short, minging, and I was, in short, fucking miserable.
I knew I could solve this by going back on the Pill, but after too long on Microgynon, which made all my feelings die, and a brief spell on the mini-pill, which made me bleed for a month, I was absolutely convinced that I didn't want to mess with my hormones anymore. In desperation, I asked for advice on a Facebook group I belonged to, and was told to get myself along to the doctors because there were things I could take.
And oh, hallelujah and hurrah, there was. The lovely doctor prescribed me tranexamic acid, which, according to Wikipedia, is "a synthetic analog of the amino acid lysine. It serves as an antifibrinolytic by reversibly binding four to five lysine receptor sites on plasminogen or plasmin". Well, I will have to take their word for it on that, but whatever the hell it is, it works. These wonderful, magical tablets have turned my miserable, horrible, depressing, messy-as-fuck periods into hardly-at-all miserable, not-really-that horrible, only-a-bit messy ones. And while that might not seem like it's much of an improvement, to me it is EVERYTHING. My flow is still very heavy on Day 2 (it was on day 3 until fairly recently actually, I don't know why that's changed but I'm not about to question it), but as long as I take the maximum dose I'm allowed, it's manageable now. I don't have to plan my whole day around toilets (well, other than the normal kind of planning that has to happen when you have two children and a tiny bladder). I don't have to be scared of making sudden movements, or sitting in one place too long, or any of the other things that might not be entirely rational worries, but would always get into my brain anyway. Day 2 is never going to be a day I greet with anything other than 'ugh'. I'm never going to want to go swimming that day, and I doubt I'll ever wear anything other than black on my bottom half. I still can't quite get rid of all my ridiculous night-precautions, despite the fact I that I know they're not really necessary. But I no longer spend two days of every month feeling like the most disgusting creature to have ever walked the face of the earth. Last year, I even went on a hen weekend on one of my heavy days, where I shared a bathroom with ten other women and went to Go Ape, which I never could have done a couple of years ago.
So my advice to anyone who is having problems with their periods is go and seek help, and don't give up until you get some. I was lucky that my doctor just believed me and prescribed something, but I know not everyone is that fortunate. But definitely don't suffer in silence. I never would have found a solution to my problem if I hadn't talked about it. Oh, and if anyone knows of a way to make tranexamic acid at home, in a coffee mug or something, please do let me know, so that next time there's a national shortage and I haven't ordered my prescription in time I don't have to burst into tears in the middle of a crowded pharmacy. Thanks.
Ah, Day 2. The day I look forward to all month.
EXTRA CONTENT WARNING: If you're already feeling a little bit iffy about this blog, and have already had a few 'Ooh, TMI' moments, then I strongly suggest you stop reading right now.
When my periods came back after having Child No. 2, they were HEAVY. Before the eight-years of chemically controlled ones, and the brief spells just before and after Child No. 1, they were fairly heavy at times, but nothing like as bad as this. On the second and third days of my periods, I would bleed A LOT. Seriously. Super tampons were done after about two hours. Eventually I switched to a Mooncup. That was no match for it either, but at least a leaking Mooncup doesn't feel quite as disgusting as a leaking tampon (does anything feel as disgusting as a leaking tampon?). If ever I saw an advert for sanitary protection featuring women in white trousers leaping about, I felt a very strong urge to hurl something at it; I was worried about walking too fast, never mind rollerskating in cycling shorts. At night, I'd wear my Mooncup, plus a sanitary towel, plus an extra pair of pants to hold it all in place, then my thickest pyjama bottoms, and even then I couldn't be sure I wouldn't wake up to stained sheets (you all think I'm really weird now, don't you?). It was, in short, minging, and I was, in short, fucking miserable.
I knew I could solve this by going back on the Pill, but after too long on Microgynon, which made all my feelings die, and a brief spell on the mini-pill, which made me bleed for a month, I was absolutely convinced that I didn't want to mess with my hormones anymore. In desperation, I asked for advice on a Facebook group I belonged to, and was told to get myself along to the doctors because there were things I could take.
And oh, hallelujah and hurrah, there was. The lovely doctor prescribed me tranexamic acid, which, according to Wikipedia, is "a synthetic analog of the amino acid lysine. It serves as an antifibrinolytic by reversibly binding four to five lysine receptor sites on plasminogen or plasmin". Well, I will have to take their word for it on that, but whatever the hell it is, it works. These wonderful, magical tablets have turned my miserable, horrible, depressing, messy-as-fuck periods into hardly-at-all miserable, not-really-that horrible, only-a-bit messy ones. And while that might not seem like it's much of an improvement, to me it is EVERYTHING. My flow is still very heavy on Day 2 (it was on day 3 until fairly recently actually, I don't know why that's changed but I'm not about to question it), but as long as I take the maximum dose I'm allowed, it's manageable now. I don't have to plan my whole day around toilets (well, other than the normal kind of planning that has to happen when you have two children and a tiny bladder). I don't have to be scared of making sudden movements, or sitting in one place too long, or any of the other things that might not be entirely rational worries, but would always get into my brain anyway. Day 2 is never going to be a day I greet with anything other than 'ugh'. I'm never going to want to go swimming that day, and I doubt I'll ever wear anything other than black on my bottom half. I still can't quite get rid of all my ridiculous night-precautions, despite the fact I that I know they're not really necessary. But I no longer spend two days of every month feeling like the most disgusting creature to have ever walked the face of the earth. Last year, I even went on a hen weekend on one of my heavy days, where I shared a bathroom with ten other women and went to Go Ape, which I never could have done a couple of years ago.
So my advice to anyone who is having problems with their periods is go and seek help, and don't give up until you get some. I was lucky that my doctor just believed me and prescribed something, but I know not everyone is that fortunate. But definitely don't suffer in silence. I never would have found a solution to my problem if I hadn't talked about it. Oh, and if anyone knows of a way to make tranexamic acid at home, in a coffee mug or something, please do let me know, so that next time there's a national shortage and I haven't ordered my prescription in time I don't have to burst into tears in the middle of a crowded pharmacy. Thanks.
Monday 22 February 2016
Blogging my period: Day 5
CONTENT WARNING: PERIODS. Obv. There Will Be Blood. And possibly other
things that you might not particularly want to read about. In which
case, my advice is: don't read it. And if you do read it, and come
across something you don't like, don't come crying to me about how you
read something you didn't want to read even though I very clearly warned
you you would read about if you continued reading.
Well, the wait is over. It has graced me with its presence. On Day 5 of my period blog, I actually now have a period to blog about. Hurrah.
I woke up this morning with a banging headache and a dull ache across my abdomen (I like the word abdomen. Life does not afford me with enough occasions to use it). Thankfully my husband was around to get the kids up, dressed and out to school, so I got to lie in bed while my head kept hurting, and the dull ache turned into a plain old ache, which turned into pain, which turned into ow pain ow pain ow pain ow. It felt, as it always does, like someone had smashed their fist through my belly button, grabbed hold of whatever they could find in there, and then twisted. Hard. After a couple of hours of this, two ibuprofen and an episode of Gossip Girl, both the pain in my head and the one in my uterus subsided, and I was able to get on with my day. I cleaned my house. It was epic.
Bit anti-climactic, innit? It doesn't really support the case I wanted to make, which is that period pain can be an absolute bitch. So, to demonstrate that more effectively, here is the charming tale of My Worst Period Pain Ever.
I was 17 years old, and at sixth form college. I'd just had lunch, and I was cramping like hell. I was meant to be going to a lesson, but decided I really couldn't take it any longer and I needed to go home. I headed towards the bus stop. Halfway across the car park, the pain intensified even further, I started feeling dizzy, my vision started to swim, and before I could do anything about it, I vomited on the ground. All I wanted to do was to crumple up into a heap on the floor, but then I looked at the gravel, the broken glass, and the regurgitated chips and thought better of it. Somehow I staggered back into college and into the toilets. I sat on the floor, shaking, crying and wondering what the hell I was going to do now (I didn't have a mobile phone then. No-one did, apart from about three people in our college who worked loads of hours in McDonald's and so could afford those little Nokias that everyone seemed to start off with. Actual aerials on them and everything, remember those days?). And then, in one of those sweet, sweet coincidences that only ever seem to happen in films, my next-door neighbour walked in, and I begged her to drive me home. She'd only popped in to go to the loo before her next lesson, which she really should have been at, but at the time I couldn't care about anything other than how much pain I was in. She took me home like the angel she is, where I spent the next few hours sitting on my own bathroom floor (I find bathroom floors incredibly comforting places to be when I'm ill for some reason, and at least the one at home was warmer and cleaner than the one at college), wrapped in towels to keep warm, and curling my knees up to my chest, hoping that that would make it stop.
I'm lucky. It had never been that bad before that day, and it's never been that bad again since (touches ALL the wood). Mostly my pains are like the ones today - yeah, I'm intensely uncomfortable for a couple of hours, but with some 39p painkillers and a bit of time, that's it. Some people - some of you lot reading this, in fact - deal or have dealt with pain like this for multiple days, every month, for years and years. All I can say is that you women are fucking NAILS. It's been 17 years since that day, and I still remember it vividly, it still ranks up there as one of the most painful and horrible physical experiences I've ever had (and I have given birth twice and epilate my underarms, so I'm no stranger to pain). Apparently period pain can be as bad as a heart attack, and yet it's still not taken seriously by much of the medical profession. I doubt me wittering on on my little blog can do anything to change that, but maybe by sharing our stories, we can remind each other that there are people out there willing to listen, sympathise and care.
Well, the wait is over. It has graced me with its presence. On Day 5 of my period blog, I actually now have a period to blog about. Hurrah.
I woke up this morning with a banging headache and a dull ache across my abdomen (I like the word abdomen. Life does not afford me with enough occasions to use it). Thankfully my husband was around to get the kids up, dressed and out to school, so I got to lie in bed while my head kept hurting, and the dull ache turned into a plain old ache, which turned into pain, which turned into ow pain ow pain ow pain ow. It felt, as it always does, like someone had smashed their fist through my belly button, grabbed hold of whatever they could find in there, and then twisted. Hard. After a couple of hours of this, two ibuprofen and an episode of Gossip Girl, both the pain in my head and the one in my uterus subsided, and I was able to get on with my day. I cleaned my house. It was epic.
Bit anti-climactic, innit? It doesn't really support the case I wanted to make, which is that period pain can be an absolute bitch. So, to demonstrate that more effectively, here is the charming tale of My Worst Period Pain Ever.
I was 17 years old, and at sixth form college. I'd just had lunch, and I was cramping like hell. I was meant to be going to a lesson, but decided I really couldn't take it any longer and I needed to go home. I headed towards the bus stop. Halfway across the car park, the pain intensified even further, I started feeling dizzy, my vision started to swim, and before I could do anything about it, I vomited on the ground. All I wanted to do was to crumple up into a heap on the floor, but then I looked at the gravel, the broken glass, and the regurgitated chips and thought better of it. Somehow I staggered back into college and into the toilets. I sat on the floor, shaking, crying and wondering what the hell I was going to do now (I didn't have a mobile phone then. No-one did, apart from about three people in our college who worked loads of hours in McDonald's and so could afford those little Nokias that everyone seemed to start off with. Actual aerials on them and everything, remember those days?). And then, in one of those sweet, sweet coincidences that only ever seem to happen in films, my next-door neighbour walked in, and I begged her to drive me home. She'd only popped in to go to the loo before her next lesson, which she really should have been at, but at the time I couldn't care about anything other than how much pain I was in. She took me home like the angel she is, where I spent the next few hours sitting on my own bathroom floor (I find bathroom floors incredibly comforting places to be when I'm ill for some reason, and at least the one at home was warmer and cleaner than the one at college), wrapped in towels to keep warm, and curling my knees up to my chest, hoping that that would make it stop.
I'm lucky. It had never been that bad before that day, and it's never been that bad again since (touches ALL the wood). Mostly my pains are like the ones today - yeah, I'm intensely uncomfortable for a couple of hours, but with some 39p painkillers and a bit of time, that's it. Some people - some of you lot reading this, in fact - deal or have dealt with pain like this for multiple days, every month, for years and years. All I can say is that you women are fucking NAILS. It's been 17 years since that day, and I still remember it vividly, it still ranks up there as one of the most painful and horrible physical experiences I've ever had (and I have given birth twice and epilate my underarms, so I'm no stranger to pain). Apparently period pain can be as bad as a heart attack, and yet it's still not taken seriously by much of the medical profession. I doubt me wittering on on my little blog can do anything to change that, but maybe by sharing our stories, we can remind each other that there are people out there willing to listen, sympathise and care.
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