This is a scheduled post. I am still here, just drowning under a tottering pile of my work and maybe a little of Damian’s. Why I do this to myself I do not know. But I want that first class degree. So badly. So I am trying my best!
UPDATE: They have put me on iron tablets. Twice daily. The ferritin levels for normal hair growth should be 70mg. That is the level at which hair can grow anew. The lowest end of ‘normal’ is 20mg. The highest, 200mg. My ferritin level is 21mg. Just 1mg above the lowest end of the spectrum, and far, far below the normal rate required for hair growth. Ferritin of course, is to do with iron levels in the blood. They test for iron levels by testing for ferritin.
Have I repeated myself too much?
Is this information understandable?
I hope so.
I am genuinely hoping that this hair problem is to do with iron deficiency. I am monitoring my iron very closely.
I will say, though, that it was me who did he research on ferritin and read research papers written by doctors in the field. I then went to my own doctor with the information. She said she hadn’t thought about that before, and prescribed me some iron.
I am pleased she looked into it further, but can’t help but worry a little as I was under the assumption that doctors should know everything, and should look into everything, ruling each diagnosis out after thorough examination.
Perhaps that costs too much money?
Perhaps our NHS is too weak now, after the Tories have settled in like a disease, and we can no longer get the adequate healthcare that we deserve? After all, so much of our income goes to taxes to keep our healthcare service running!
I can still see my scalp shining like a lonely beacon, through the sparseness on the top of my head. But yesterday I straightened my hair after blowdrying it, and it looked fabulous. So, oh voluminous.
It was long, and the patch was hidden, and if I fluffed it up around my face well enough, it looked like I had professional hair, and plenty of it.
Oh, so voluminous.
Some days, I don’t feel that great. Oh, I know we all feel like that sometimes. The bed seems more comfy than usual. Limbs are heavy, eyes are always on the brink of tears. So, rather than wallow, I decided to get up and go for a walk. It’s the evening. The stars are shining, after a cloudy day. The tip of my nose no longer feels anything. But oh, what a beautiful night.
How many pebbles go in my happy jar today?
- The morning sunrise created an ethereal purple light in the sky. Pink clouds, gentle wind, bare trees with yellow leaves dangling like golden earrings in the morning sun.
- The day was beautiful. The sun vanished quickly, but the clouds rolled majestically and the wind blew in my face, cold and refreshing. The sound of the trees swaying in the breeze was something magical.
- I got the most darling text message from my husband today. The fire is still crackling away merrily.
- I was pleased with the amount of work I put in today. I hope my module tutor will take heed and bump up my grades.
- I bought Oroonoko by Aphra Behn from Amazon and it arrived today. It was a splurge, because it was a brand new book. I usually spend hours searching for a well used old copy in the charity shop. I am not thinking about the money because I am excited to read this so-called classic.
- Clean bedding.
- Fluffy socks and cinnamon rolls!
- Home made steak for dinner. Now that never usually happens. We are in for a treeeaaat *sings last word*.
What made you happy today?
A lot of my ‘friends’, or perhaps I should say acquaintances, now that they know that I have been married for quite a while now , keep asking dreadful things like, “Is there a bun in that oven, yet?”, or, “Any good news to tell me yet, Lenny?”
Or perhaps the worst, “When will I be an aunt, Len?”
It is the worst because it comes from a young lady who I don’t like, and who isn’t even remotely related to me.
You must be aware, of course, that these young ladies are not frugal with their vulgarity. They find it perfectly within reason to ask me distasteful questions about intimacy and deem it more than appropriate to speak about my sex life as though, now that I am married, it is a completely open topic.
It just puts me under such pressure.
I think it’s wrong for people to ask questions like that. I think it’s completely inconsiderate of their feelings, because you don’t know what is going on with them. You don’t know what their situation might me.
I won’t lie, folks, I feel a little sad when I see pregnant ladies walking by, their hands resting on their protruding stomachs protectively. A little twinge of pain rustles in my abdomen when I see a mother picking up her child kissing said child on the cheek. It’s not that I think I will never have that. I think, and hope, that I shall someday. It’s just that I haven’t yet mourned my loss, no matter how small it was. It was so early, and so tiny, just a ball of cells really, but it gave me so much hope for life and to lose it is to feel like a small candle has been blown out, never to be relit again.
There will be other candles, of course. Hopefully small flames that will grow into roaring fires of life and hope and vitality.
But in the meantime, spare your questions. Spare asking people things that don’t concern you. You don’t know what they are going through, it is not your place to pry.
Excuse the mess of my bedside table. This photo was taken in May 2013. It is of a pet rock, named Sir Jiles Darcy. He was a birthday present to my friend Lulu. Sadly she never actually saw him in real life.
He sat on my bedside table for quite some time, and was quite a great companion. At the moment he resides back at my mother’s house. Today he sits on a pile of dusty books that I have yet to organise. I like to think he is standing guard over my precious babies.
I think that all of our issues and situations are what we make them. We can tolerate things that are beyond our control. We can react calmly, and assess the situation logically. Or we can have a panic attack and roam the airport waiting room, sad music of our own creation resounding in our brains as we bemoan the imaginary loss of an unformed infant.
I think that I learnt this very profoundly this week.
My body was aching and exhausted when the cramps began. Then the blood began to flow. I panicked and googled feverishly, but I carried on as usual. I told myself I wouldn’t cry until I knew for certain. When ‘it’ happened, and I was sitting in the bathroom staring at ‘it’, there were no tears. After I emerged, and my eyes met my husband’s across the hotel lobby, and he nodded at me and picked up my bag, we walked for some time in complete silence. In the airport it hit me with full force and I reacted as a child might have done. I was moody and off with anybody who I had to talk to, even my husband. I cried a little in the bathroom.
“Stay with me. Stay strong” my husband said, numerous times.
‘What does that even mean?’ I wondered.
I wasn’t breaking down. I wasn’t saturated in grief. I was still me.
When the plane took off, and my fear of flying began to kick in, my fingers gripping my husband’s until the area where my skin met his was white and bloodless, I felt a panic attack coming on.
Oh no. The plane is shaking. The seatbelt sign came on. God why did it come on. Why is the attendant speaking to the pilot. Does she look worried? Make that man shut up, I can’t hear the engines. Why are the engines making that noise. Oh my GOD. Oh My God. I am going to die, this is it. It’s over. Ok. We’re going to crash. We’re shaking so much. This cannot be normal.
Heavy breathing. Heart pumping. Blood roaring in my ears. It was happening. My vision was suddenly clouding.
Then I sat up a little and took my hands back. Why? Why worry. Why dramatise things. Why live in my head and not in reality. Yes. You lost a pregnancy at 5 weeks. Did you really lose it? You aren’t sure yet. You haven’t seen a doctor. Are you a doctor? No. Why jump to conclusions. Yes, the plane is shaking. Doesn’t it always? And don’t you always go through this gut wrenching fear? Whatever for, for heaven’s sake! You’re still here aren’t you!
Is it worth it?
I found out what Damian means when he says ‘stay with me’. He wants me to stay in reality with him, and not migrate into my head, and live my own dramatised, illogical life there.
I don’t know if a lot of people are guilty of that. If any of you are, it’s going to be okay. A few sleeps, some hours, and you will emerge again. And if you don’t, you’re dead, and it won’t matter anymore.
My grandmother was a worrier. She worried until her poor heart gave up on her. She worried until her last breath, over the slightest thing.
She owned this book: