The abyss remains unstared at, but we are going away for a long weekend tomorrow and the plan is to spend some time thinking and talking about what to do next.
But it's really for Significant Other to decide what he wants to do, because I already know.
I'm not ready to give up on treatment yet.
I'm not ready to give up on trying to have a child, build a family.
I'm not ready to face the pain and emptiness and - well - despair that decision will bring.
I'm not ready to give up on trying to give my parents a grandchild.
I'm not ready to give up on the dream of some day in the future possibly having a grandchild of my own.
I'm not ready to watch Significant Other battle with the twin demons of facing a life without children, or making a life with someone else.
I am not ready to not pick up the pieces of myself and remake them into someone who will never be a mother.
I'm not ready. Not yet.
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Sunday, 24 January 2010
the pause button
I lost the last pregnancy over Christmas, we went away for New Year and during that time we were either drinking, eating or laughing with friends. Since we came back to the metropolis, we have been pretty much gunky-b00bie-focussed.
But now that fun is over and we are faced with the big, black abyss which is What Next? We haven't had our WTF appointment with the consultant yet, we haven't really discussed whether we are going to have another shot at IVF (a brief, 30-second moment yesterday when Significant Other said that the first go took too much out of him I don't think really counts as "talking about it") and I can't even begin to think about what's next if we don't have another go.
Bizarrely, the time spent either being sliced and diced or in a c0deine-induced marshmallowy other world has been a relief. But today is exactly one month since I started to properly bleed (floods rather than spots) and exactly 6 months until I am 42 and no longer eligible for IVF in this country.
It's time to take our fingers off the pause button.
But now that fun is over and we are faced with the big, black abyss which is What Next? We haven't had our WTF appointment with the consultant yet, we haven't really discussed whether we are going to have another shot at IVF (a brief, 30-second moment yesterday when Significant Other said that the first go took too much out of him I don't think really counts as "talking about it") and I can't even begin to think about what's next if we don't have another go.
Bizarrely, the time spent either being sliced and diced or in a c0deine-induced marshmallowy other world has been a relief. But today is exactly one month since I started to properly bleed (floods rather than spots) and exactly 6 months until I am 42 and no longer eligible for IVF in this country.
It's time to take our fingers off the pause button.
Monday, 18 January 2010
healing nicely
I had my sutures removed this morning and the Mad Professor reviewed the surgeon's handiwork. Apparently the wound has sealed already, the Mad Professor was very impressed with my powers of self-healing. Just a few more days of dressings and then it's done with.
Apart from waiting to see if the scar will need plastic surgery.
And if histology on the cyst found anything.
Oh, and waiting for the quite astonishing amount of bruising (yes, I inspected my poor, put-upon b00bie as soon as the sutures came out) to fade.
But all that aside - it's out, it's healed, it's done.
Hoorah!
Apart from waiting to see if the scar will need plastic surgery.
And if histology on the cyst found anything.
Oh, and waiting for the quite astonishing amount of bruising (yes, I inspected my poor, put-upon b00bie as soon as the sutures came out) to fade.
But all that aside - it's out, it's healed, it's done.
Hoorah!
Thursday, 14 January 2010
sliced and diced
After a pain-filled but otherwise dull few days on the boobie front, I went in for the excision this morning. I had already been prescribed c0deine yesterday and I popped a dose before leaving for the hospital so was in a fairly dreamy state when we got there.
I was rudely awakened from the dream by the injecting of the local anaesthetic. It went in at six places around the cyst and each time the pain was eye-watering. And then out came the scalpel and I found that local anaesthetic doesn't deaden the pain, it merely gives it a clip round the ear. It hurt so much I almost fainted, even though I was already lying down. And, to my deep shame, I cried.
"You're doing very well," Lovely (pregnant) Surgeon said, but when you are clenching your fist so tight you leave nail marks in your palm, and you have tears streaming out of your eyes and into your hair, you think she's probably lying.
After what seemed like an hour but was actually only about 5 minutes, the cyst was out and floating around in a pot of preservative. It is going off for histology and in the meanwhile I am lying in bed, my darling little cat at my side and c0deine is my new best friend.
I was rudely awakened from the dream by the injecting of the local anaesthetic. It went in at six places around the cyst and each time the pain was eye-watering. And then out came the scalpel and I found that local anaesthetic doesn't deaden the pain, it merely gives it a clip round the ear. It hurt so much I almost fainted, even though I was already lying down. And, to my deep shame, I cried.
"You're doing very well," Lovely (pregnant) Surgeon said, but when you are clenching your fist so tight you leave nail marks in your palm, and you have tears streaming out of your eyes and into your hair, you think she's probably lying.
After what seemed like an hour but was actually only about 5 minutes, the cyst was out and floating around in a pot of preservative. It is going off for histology and in the meanwhile I am lying in bed, my darling little cat at my side and c0deine is my new best friend.
Monday, 11 January 2010
a little culture
Well gunky microscopy came back negative at the end of last week but gunky culture came back positive this morning. It's positive for a certain kind of anaerobic bacteria which 90% of the time is simply an infection of the bloodstream. Ten percent of the time it can be indicative of something that might need more treatment.
So the Mad Professor has changed my antibiotics and wants to run a host of blood tests at the end of the week, just to make sure that my liver isn't playing silly buggers and then it's just a matter of waiting for the appointment with the surgeon to come through.
I'm not really that worried about anything sinister going on, but I will admit to being a little bit fed up with it all.
So the Mad Professor has changed my antibiotics and wants to run a host of blood tests at the end of the week, just to make sure that my liver isn't playing silly buggers and then it's just a matter of waiting for the appointment with the surgeon to come through.
I'm not really that worried about anything sinister going on, but I will admit to being a little bit fed up with it all.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
ripping off the plaster
I'm generally a "rip the plaster off quickly" type of gal but that doesn't work so well when said plaster is actually a wound dressing the size of one's hand, stuck to the underside of one's boob. In order to change the dressing I have to hold up my breast with one hand (hey, I'm 41 and losing elasticity), unstick the dressing with the other hand and hold down the skin it's being ripped from with a third hand. So straight away you see the problem?
On the first morning I asked Significant Other for help. He very nearly touched the pad under the dressing, ran swearing to the bathroom where he washed his hands under scalding hot water for five minutes and then applied about half a little plastic bottle of antiseptic gel because "we don't know what you've got and I might have got some on me". Charming though this display of concern for my wellbeing was, I felt it best to carry on unaided... I now have the process down to a fine art where I dispense with holding down the skin and simply rip - but I have added swearing long and loud and this seems to help.
Microscopy came back negative (yay), but it means that we don't know what the whole lump thing is all about (meh) so the Mad Professor has decided better out than in and has referred me to a surgeon (eek).
And the UK is still under a blanket of snow. Isn't this an amazing picture?
On the first morning I asked Significant Other for help. He very nearly touched the pad under the dressing, ran swearing to the bathroom where he washed his hands under scalding hot water for five minutes and then applied about half a little plastic bottle of antiseptic gel because "we don't know what you've got and I might have got some on me". Charming though this display of concern for my wellbeing was, I felt it best to carry on unaided... I now have the process down to a fine art where I dispense with holding down the skin and simply rip - but I have added swearing long and loud and this seems to help.
Microscopy came back negative (yay), but it means that we don't know what the whole lump thing is all about (meh) so the Mad Professor has decided better out than in and has referred me to a surgeon (eek).
And the UK is still under a blanket of snow. Isn't this an amazing picture?
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
ouch, ouch, ouch
FNA this afternoon and despite the gentle touch of the Mad Professor - IT HURTS!
You know that you were right to seek a medical opinion when said medical opinion mutters "oh my" at the re-vol-ting stuff that comes out of the lump in your right boob. The Mad Professor kindly offered to show me the syringe afterwards and, accustomed though I am to yucky fluids in my day-to-day working life, it's different when looking at something that has just been syphoned from your own body.
Anyway, I was patched up and sent out into the snow and a vial of vile has been sent to the lab for analysis. Now all I have to do is change the dressing each morning, not throw up the antibiotics and try to remember that I can't stretch my right arm out before I stretch my right arm out...
And in the meanwhile - this is the view from the kitchen window.
You know that you were right to seek a medical opinion when said medical opinion mutters "oh my" at the re-vol-ting stuff that comes out of the lump in your right boob. The Mad Professor kindly offered to show me the syringe afterwards and, accustomed though I am to yucky fluids in my day-to-day working life, it's different when looking at something that has just been syphoned from your own body.
Anyway, I was patched up and sent out into the snow and a vial of vile has been sent to the lab for analysis. Now all I have to do is change the dressing each morning, not throw up the antibiotics and try to remember that I can't stretch my right arm out before I stretch my right arm out...
And in the meanwhile - this is the view from the kitchen window.
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