I woke up today with an awful belly ache, and it never went away.
Even during one of the best treats available each month, the British Film Institute archival films (this time, ‘Austerity Britain’ – propaganda about coal mines and comprehensive education), I was nearly doubled over with wrenching pain.
This is not the flu, or some kind of easy virus – oh no. Symptoms tally to exactly one option: the rupture of an ovarian cyst.
It happens every few years, but has been sufficiently destructive various physicians have offered to snatch away the ovaries in a prophylactic fashion. You can even see the damage on ultrasound scan, if you ever wish to accompany me to the various appointments intended to identify ovarian cancer before it (some would say inevitably) kills me.
The pain is somewhat unique in that I want to stretch against it – push it away – instead of curling up around the burning center.
Since I am such a practiced patient, I know that there are no relevant treatment options, aside from pain medication, and I’m allergic.
Unless I start to hemorrhage, there is no reason to seek expert advice or go to the hospital.
Knowing that does not in any way translate to comfort or solace.
I hate this. Not because of the pain, but because of what it reminds me of, what it represents, what I can never escape, the way I have to prioritize taking care of the people around me instead of just feeling.
Dissolve in tears? That might be a relief, but I have a kid who needs supper.
I’m sad and sick and very tired.