Tag Archives: mother nature

Design Flaws

Sometimes I think that women have some serious design flaws.

I mean, really, is it necessary at the end of our useful reproductive life to have to go through the hot flushes, mood swings, weight gain and all the other stuff that comes with menopause? Does childbearing and birthing have to wreak such havoc on a woman’s body? Wouldn’t it be much better just to have it all spring back into shape as if nothing had happened?

It wouldn’t be so bad if the menopause happened over a two week period and that was the end of that. You know, like a mega menstrual cycle to get rid of all the stuff you don’t need any more. But oh no, that’s too simple. Mother nature decided that once we are no longer useful for reproducing things don’t need to be in tip top condition. It can all run to rack and ruin. I suppose the rationale being that once we aren’t useful for breeding then the caveman will move on to a younger, fitter woman and the old birds can just die. Not being able to run so fast and not having a caveman to protect us probably meant we would be eaten by a dinosaur and that would be the end of that. Survival of the fittest and all that. No need to keep things ticketyboo in the old birds.

Does mother nature, and by mother nature I mean that nasty old bitch, nature, not know that times have changed? These days we are more likely to live past the age of forty and our useful life isn’t at an end. Not only that, these days most people don’t end up as dinosaur fodder when they slow down a bit. It would be nice if the decline into old age was a bit gentler and kinder.

What the hell am I talking about? I’ll tell you, dear reader.

I won’t tell you in all the gory details so don’t worry, I’ll keep detail to a minimum.

It’s no secret that I am a woman of *ahem* a certain age. Few several years now I have suffered the indignity of hot flushes, blah, blah, blah, you name it, bring on the menopause symptoms. Note the use of the word ‘years’. Years! For God’s sake!

Anyway, that aside, over the last year or two there have been other things going on in my body. Wrinkles have caused my once fairly pretty face to look stern and old. My once voluptuous breasts now look like boulders in a giant sock. My friend with not quite so extravagant mammaries says hers now look like spaniels ears. My once pert bottom now looks like a saggy, dimply lump of jelly and my stomach, let’s not even talk about that. Everything has headed south. Not only headed south but headed south and taken everything useful or beautiful with it and massively fucked off. If I ever win the lottery I’ll book myself in for plastic surgery and tell the surgeon to pick me up by my hair, give me a good shake, trim off all the excess skin, sew it back up and that should sort it all out.

Changes on the outside are one thing. Changes on the inside are another thing entirely. Gravity, weak muscles and the damage wreaked from giving birth to and nurturing three kids has apparently caused my innards to give up the ghost and collapse into a heap onto my pelvic floor like a pile of dirty washing. Thanks for your brilliant design, mother nature. Bitch.

Eventually realising that things weren’t quite right in the nether regions I went to see my doctor who in turn referred me to a specialist.

Rather too jolly and farmer-ish for my delicate sensibilities he announced in a loud and booming voice to everyone within a three mile radius, “Right, bit of a mess in there. I can’t tell if your uterus needs to come out till I give it a good pull and see what happens. I can’t really do that while you’re awake. So we’ll put you to sleep. It if moves I’ll remove it. I mean, it’s not like you need it any more, is it? Hahahahahah!!!!!”

Not usually sensitive but I found myself upset and wounded by his words, telling myself to get over it. It isn’t as if I need it any more, is it?

So. I was duly put on the waiting list to have my innards tidied up and a possible hysterectomy. That was about nine weeks ago. A few days ago I got a phone call telling me that a place was available. I had my operation this Wednesday.

I’ve never been in hospital other to have my kids. I was terrified.

People moan about the NHS. I can’t fault it. Every single person I came across was friendly, professional and very capable. I felt completely safe in their hands. After chatting with the anaesthetist the next thing I remember is waking up in a ward hours later. It must be odd being an anaesthetist, conversations being cut short all day long. I remember we were talking about her lovely necklace and then…nothing.

So, it turns out that I had not one, not two but three operations Wednesday. Suffice to say I’m a bit sore at the moment. They tidied round, threw out some stuff they didn’t need, did a couple of repair jobs and some embroidery, generally making everything neat and tidy.

Now I sit here thinking about the looooooooong weeks ahead of me where I can’t go out, drive, do housework ( ok, not too upset about that bit) or any kind of exertion for the next 6-8 weeks. After that I have been told I must never lift anything heavy again or I will undo all the work that has been done and end up worse that I was before. That’s going to be difficult for woman who generally behaves like Tigger on speed. Sitting still really isn’t my forte. Maybe I should take up basket weaving?


I only wanted a doctor’s appointment

So. After a few days of feeling absolutely wretched and having a strange tingly, numbness and heaviness attacking various parts of my anatomy added to my delightful half hourly menopausal tropical moments, I finally fell apart emotionally and spent most of Saturday morning in tears.

Mother nature is one nasty bitch, isn’t she?  As if it’s not bad enough realising that you’re well on the way  on the journey from Goddess to Crone she has to throw in emotional turmoil, forgetfulness, palpitations, permanent knackeredness and worst of all, hot flushes. Oh, how I enjoy those tropical moments. NOT! I only have to think a wrong thought and I’m off again. Well, thanks for all that, Mother Nature. Fook you too.

Anyway, back to the plot. I came back from walking the dog in floods of tears. The combination of all of the above finally proving too much to for me bear. Poor old Boofuls wondered what the hell was going on as I arrived home  sobbing. As normal he calmly took over.   A phone call to our GP confirmed what we already knew, there was no surgery on Saturday morning. The next opportunity to see our GP would be  Wednesday afternoon as we’d planned our summer holiday, all two days of it,  in the Lake District for Monday and Tuesday and there was no way I was giving up my summer holiday.

“Wednesday? I can’t wait till Wednesday.” I sobbed down the phone to the poor receptionist at the  out of hours service. She promptly made me an appointment for two hours hence at the primary care centre. Normally rarer than rocking horse poo I was so grateful for my appointment I cried even more.   The tingling and numbness was a real concern to me for many a reason I don’t need to share on here.

We turned up at the appointed time and saw a nurse practitioner. “Stand on one leg. Touch your nose, walk across the room.” I’m sure if she was testing for sobriety.

Eventually, she decided that she didn’t know what was wrong with me and said that she wanted to refer me to the medical assessment unit. In my naivety I assumed she meant she was referring me to a doctor. How wrong can you be?

We made our way to the medical assessment unit to be told. “Oh yes, we’re ready for you. Your bed’s over there, I’ll come and admit you in a minute.”

“What? Bed? No! There must be some mistake.  I’m only here to see a doctor.” I spluttered, wide eyed and panicky.

” The doctor will be with you shortly. There’s your bed.”

Oh dear Lord.

So that was me in hospital for eight hours while various samples of bodily fluids were taken from me, tests done, x-rays performed and reflexes checked. They clearly thought I was having either a stroke or a heart attack. Now I’m no expert but I could have told them that I wasn’t. I felt like a complete fraud taking up a hospital bed while women clearly in a lot more distress and with far more serious conditions than mine  were being wheeled in.

They did eventually establish that the tingling etc. is being caused by some damage to my neck so I didn’t feel like such a fraud then. I was eventually discharged with instructions to wait for an appointment for an MRI scan.

You know, we criticise our health service and it certainly is not without it’s flaws but when I needed help, help was available, and quickly. They were very thorough in their investigations and,  having established that what I was suffering,  while certainly unpleasant, wasn’t life threatening, they then made arrangements for me to go back and get it sorted out. Well done NHS – and all I wanted was a doctor’s appointment!

One for the girls

Here’s a salutary tale about a hypothetical woman  who might have gone on holiday recently.

Yup, men, look away now because this is wimmin talk but before you go….

Do you know how to make a hormone?

Don’t pay her!

Have they gone? Ok, I’ll carry on.

So, this  hypothetical woman who may have gone on holiday recently, has hypothetical hormones that  you could set the proverbial clock by.   A few days in to the holiday, on a day when the ship she  was in  port her hormones decided to throw in a flanker and  summon Mother Nature to put in an appearance a full week earlier than expected.  Off course being a whole week early the appropriate supplies were in short….er….supply. I fact they were none existent.  The other important element here is that the ship was in a port  –  meaning that all the shops on board were closed. A fact that our heroine registered with a cry of, “Oh shit! The ships shop’s shut!!!”  Not easy to say under any circumstances, I feel.

To make matter even worse the ship was docked in Russia, a country which doesn’t allow cruise ship passengers to wander round willy nilly.  Ooohh nooo, if you want to leave the ship you have to be on an organised tour, the next one of which was the following day.  All was looking a bit dire for our heroine.

All meagre supplies were utilised which had the unfortunate effect of causing our heroine to walk as if she was riding an invisible horse. Luckily the tour booked for the following day was one that involved a bit of free time, enough time to buy in emergency supplies.  Of course before the free time there was the usual guided tour of the town on a dilapidated bus with hard bench seats for two and a half hours. Two and a half!! Our heroine was distraught.

Eventually the sheep tourists were let loose and our heroine and her handsome beau made a sharp escape from the crowd and down  a seedy side street to the nearest proper  shop. By proper I mean one that sold real stuff not just faberge eggs and matryoshka dolls.  Taking a deep steadying breath she marched (gingerly)  into the shop frantically looking round for appropriate ‘lady things’ hoping that there would be no need to speak as she wasn’t well versed in Russian. No such items showed themselves. Nothing else for it then.

She plastered a big smile on her face and walked up to the less than inviting looking assistant who had been sullenly eyeing her up since she came in. It wasn’t  an unreasonable assumption to think that she may have been a KGB agent or even a wrestler at one time.

“Er… do you have any er…. lady things,” muttered our heroine in a feeble voice while waving her hands in in a downward motion in roughly the correct anatomical area.  It was clear to see when comprehension dawned on the assistant as she recoiled with a disgusted look on her face, visibly shuddered and took a step backwards.

“No! No! we no have thees thing!  Vodka! We haf  only  the vaaaaaarrrrdka!”

By that time our heroine, could have done with a  stiff vodka, I can tell you.

Slinking out feeling like a leper she made her way to the next shop, a supermarket.  After searching the whole store and being unwilling to ask for fear of upsetting the locals again, the lady things were eventually located -right in front of the checkout.

The choice of items seemed to be limited to either extra large or super plus. These Russian women  must have some heavy flow going on. I did  eventually discover why the limited choice of sizes though.  It later became very obvious that  the tampons needed to be super plus because  they don’t so much  work as an absorbent as much as they do a plug –  but  you know, desperate times, beggars can’t be choosers  and all that.

At the checkout our heroine offered  a debit card, Euros, Danish Krone, Sterling and Estonian Kroon. “Nyet. Only rubles.”   Sod it!!

Luckily there was cash machine only a few feet away. In went the card. Out came the card. In went the card again. Out came the card with a warning; “next time we see it we’re keeping it now pi55 off.” That wasn’t exactly what it said but it was close enough.  Near to tears and becoming more shrill by the second out heroine was saved by her handsome  beau who’s card was accepted with no trouble at all, He extracted about 6 million rubles, about twenty quid, and all was well.

After purchasing the aforementioned goods they made a sharp exit, much to everyone’s relief a disaster was averted.

And so to the moral of the story: Never trust Mother Nature, she’s a sneaky little bitch who will creep up on you at  the most inopportune times and unexpected places in order to cause as much disruption as possible.

Always remember the boy scouts  motto. ‘ Be prepared.’