Having recently moved back to the UK, and back into our previously rented-out house, most of my time has been taken up by unpacking, tidying, sorting out the legions of rubbish we seem to have accumulated over the years, yet lived without quite happily in Australia, and repairing the damage made by the not-so-pleasant tenants.
I have discovered that I am actually not bad at DIY. I can paint, hang wallpaper, skim walls, re-grout tiles, and even fill in holes in tiled walls. (Really not sure how the Horrible Tenants managed to do that one, especially as it was behind the towel rail. But the less I think of what they did in this house the better, especially as I have discovered they had a baby here. Talk about a smack in the face…) I may have found my new calling in life, and am available for hire, should anyone else have Tenant-Induced Mess they need sorting out.
Yesterday, whilst sorting out the dreaded paperwork, I came across a rather unpleasant surprise. Some pictures fell out of a file. They weren’t of himself with an ex-girlfriend, or another woman, or even of myself in the days when I thought tartan trousers were the epitome of fashion sense. They were of my uterus. Lovely Gynae Woman gave me them after my surgery, so I could see what my adhesions looked like (perhaps less Lovely after all). I thoughtfully left them behind in the UK after my surgery, mostly because they were scary, messy, and I didn’t want to see them ever again. Until yesterday, when I didn’t have a choice.
They look awful. Really awful. I vaguely remembered some adhesions, and some nice normal endometrium at the top, which was what I was trying to console myself with, and to reassure myself that things weren’t that bad. However, on second glance, all I can see is adhesions, attached and broken adhesions, and all this fluffy stuff floating around in the breeze. I can barely see any normal endometrium at all. No wonder my poor uterus has misbehaved over the past year, I can’t honestly blame it.
I would post the photos on here, but that would mean I have to look at them again, and the thought makes me feel physically sick. I have hidden them, and eaten brownies and gin for dinner last night.
It’s just too close to see your own damaged insides like that. Far too close to home. I would much rather live in blissful ignorance, because knowing that, seeing those pictures is just too horrible and depressing. Please, somebody talk some sense into me; reassure me; convince me that things will improve, that it will heal and get better. I so want a child, you all know that; you all understand that yearning, that sinking feeling when you realise how screwed up your fertility is.
On the slightly more positive side, I saw a friend the other day. Incidentally, the one who makes Magic Brownies, and the one who managed to have a baby after goodness only knows how many years of fertility treatment and “You’ll never have a baby” proclamations by different fertility consultants (who could really work on their bedside manner). Her son is gorgeous, apart from his donkey noises, farting and old man belches. And his obsession with The Simpsons. Unfortunately he cried every time I held him. I tried not to take it personally.
I have also ordered a new sofa, so hopefully my bottom will be a bit more comfortable in the near future! And on that new sofa will sit the teddy I won over at HFF’s site, which arrived this morning. Thank you!
My next appointment with Lovely Gynae Woman is on tuesday… please keep those fingers crossed for me…