Hysteroscopic Myomectomy (TCRF)

So, back in October 2020 after pleading with PALS (Patient and Liaison Service) at my local hospital, I was finally able to get my surgery. I wasn’t sure what to expect and pretty much hadn’t been anywhere near a hospital for a good year.

Still being quite scared about the prospect of catching ‘Rona from a taxi driver, I opted to make the journey to the hospital on foot. Due to having to have a local anaesthetic and not being able to drive after the procedure, I figured an hours walk would do me some good. I arrived in good time, walked into the entrance and looked for some hand sanitiser. I was met by a lady who said she’d take my temperature before I could enter the next set of doors. Upon taking my temp, she altered me to the fact my temperature was high. I was asked if I’d had any symptoms or felt unwell. Starting to get worried, I explained that I work from home and haven’t been in contact with anyone. I also explained that I’d just walked the journey, which I was now massively regretting as it had obviously spiked my temporary.

There was a lot of back and forth checking and calling people and rechecking my temperature, which had slightly decreased but they were still worried. After about 15 minutes of me trying not to cry and have a breakdown, they let me through the doors but told me I was likely to be sent home. Completely understandable, but I was devastated. Once I made my way to the gynaecology department, I waited outside and then had my temperature checked again. I was very stressed by this time until a lovely nurse asked me to follow her to a room. She did the required pre op questionnaire and took my blood pressure before trying to help me calm down. I explained that I’d walked to the hospital and the last 10-15 minutes had left me in an overly anxious state. She noted my blood pressure, told me to put a few pain relieving pessaries up my bottom and then took me to another waiting room. After a short while, a consultant gynae came in introduced himself and asked relevant questions, made me aware of the procedure that was taking place and the risks involved. I remember being a little disappointed as the gynae wasn’t the one I was told was doing the operation and I wanted someone experienced. I know it’s a teaching hospital, but I wanted someone whose credentials I was already aware of. Not wishing to make any more fuss after the day hadn’t gone accordingly, I said nothing.

After another 10 or so minutes (felt like hours), I noticed my nether regions had started to become numb and I was directed into the procedure room. I undressed from the waist down and lay on the table, my legs quivering with anxiety and fear.. My breathing shakey and heart palpitations in full swing. Everyone in the room introduced themselves and I was asked to confirm what was happening. There were 2 nurses, 1 hca (Health Care Assistant) and 2 surgeons in the room (including the one I had been expecting initially). The experienced surgeon was guiding the new guy through the procedure. I relaxed a little knowing I was in very capable hands. I’d read and watched videos of the procedure, so knew what was going to happen. They explained the procedure and the importance of balancing any water/fluids they flushed through me. For the next 15 minutes, I was prodded, poked, stretched, pushed and pulled in all kinds of way as they tried to get to my cervix. The table was highered, lowered, the light adjusted like it was a photoshoot as they tried to get a look inside and see what was going on. My fibroid was distorting my uterus so much, its no longer easily accessible or in the correct place. I was told they may have to abandon it altogether and just list me for a myomectomy instead, as they couldn’t get to my cervix to give me the local anaesthetic I needed. After some more uncomfortable prodding and poking and perhaps 45 minutes after I’d entered the room, the injection was finally given and they set about dilating my cervix with multiple rods.

I was kept very occupied by the nurses and hcas and constantly asked if I was okay and to let them know if I wasn’t and they’d stop. It was very reassuring.

Once dilated and ready to go, they put the screen on and I watched the monitor. At this point, Richard had completely taken over the operation, as it would appear my fibroid situation was a bit too complex for Mohamed to deal with. Which was fine, I wasn’t bothered either way, I was just happy to be getting treated. We all chatted and laughed together. I talked about my life, my ex, my family, obviously had a talk about Covid-19. I breathed my way through the difficult parts, whilst they double checked I was okay to continue. The smell of burning fibroid tainted my nostrils. There was definitely a point where I could feel the hysteroscope beneath my ribs, as an uncomfortable sensation rippled through my upper body. I felt like it was in my chest – I guess that’s how far up these fibroids had pushed my organs. I watched the monitor and recorded video clips at the same time. You can’t pass up an opportunity like this’ watching your insides!

2 hours later, my submucosal fibroid was gone. He was only 2x3cm but he’d been irradicated. Another that was encroaching my endometrium was also shaved down. Apparently Freddie was acting like a contraceptive. He’d blocked off the entire route to the rest of uterus /reproductive system. No sperm was getting past that sucker. Once the fluid balance was completed and everything removed, the procedure was completed. I lay on the table and watched them clear everything away whilst I tried to relax myself.

After a few moments, i slowly stood up and was guided to get dressed and make my way to recovery. 20 minutes later, mt blood pressure was taken again and it was high enough for them to consider admitting me overnight. I explained i didn’t want that due to covid safety and promised I’d go see my GP about medication. It was 178/125 and it hadn’t been that high for a very long time. I left the hospital and went home to try and relax. I was cramping only slightly, with mild spotting, so nothing I wasn’t already used to. My ex picked me up and dropped me home. I spent the next few days extremely anxious about mt blood pressure and feeling sore from all the prodding and poking.

Overall though, my recovery was pretty straightforward and I healed well. There were little bits of fibroid leaving my body, but nothing that caused pain or concern. The antibiotics I was prescribed did their job. A few months after the tcrf, I received a letter that confirmed the fibroid removed was actually benign, which was a massive relief for me. I had no symptoms to suggest otherwise, but you can never be too sure about these things. I was told to expect much lighter periods over the coming months – something I really was looking forward to. Hopefully now my next step is to actually start ivf. 😁

Mother’s Day

This year seems to be hitting a bit harder than the others before it. Not even sure why. I think maybe I just hoped this one would be different. That’d I’d be closer to, or on my way to motherhood.

I feel incredibly sad and emotional and have done for a few days. It really does feel like it’ll never happen and I’ll never be entitled to share this day with all the other mother’s around the world.

Today I’m going to try and avoid social media and just spend the day in my thoughts, doing what makes me happy. I’ve sent my ma a card and I’ll be ordering her some flowers later. I know it’ll be belated but at least all the flowers she gets won’t all flounder at the same time.

I’d like to stay positive in hope I won’t feel the same way this time next year, but who knows what the reality will even be.

Weight Loss

I remember back in March /April time working at the care home and jumping on the seated scales so the girls could measure me. I did it often, but with all the pandemic stress, I’d forgotten for a while and was curious. I quite specifically recall the panic I felt when I converted the kgs into the stones I was used to and the numbers not quite adding up like they used to.

As with anyone who suffers with anxiety, panic ensued. Apparently my colleagues had also noticed. Presumably they’d not said anything as they didn’t want to worry me. Dramatic weight loss is a scary thing – no good diagnosis has ever come from dramatic weight loss. I went home that day and tried on my clothes. I felt disgusting. I even tried on clothes that I knew were too small and wanted to cry at the realisation of them now fitting me. I stared at my body and try to wrack my brains for answers. I had gone through a breakup, a house move, stopped eating meat and no longer sitting in my car for a daily 2 hour commute. I’d also been walking 20 minutes a day for 6 weeks which was bound to have had an effect, but I was still unsure as it had been so sudden. I’d also been taking a blood pressure tablet sporadically, as the side effects were making me feel like shit. One of the rare effects was weight loss. Perhaps this was also contributing.

After speaking with the gp, had lots of tests and nothing immediately wrong came back, I decided to try and lower my BP via non medical methods and tried to put the weight loss to the back of my mind. Months later, in October, I was again prompted that my BP was too high and that perhaps medication was needed to control it. I reluctantly went back on and low and behold, a month later I noticed more changes to my body and skin. This worried me again. My face had aged due to stress and loss of fat and I began feeling very self conscious. Joining a support group, I realised others had the same weight issues.. I felt less alone. I decided it was time to have a word with myself! When I met my ex, I was very active, didn’t have a car, used to walk everywhere, cycle or get a bus. I’d rarely eat meat. I didn’t know anything about fibroids, I was a size 8 and my boobs were a D cup. 3 years later, I have a car, barely walked anywhere and constantly snacked on crap and loved a takeaway. I’m 37 years old, naturally my skin isn’t going to be what it used to. It honestly feels like my body is just reverting back to pre relationship state. My natural state, hopefully.

I did weigh myself last time I was at the GP and it was pretty consistent with how my clothes have been feeling. 10 stone.. Which means I shed 1.5 stone this year. Although I wasn’t in the right mindset to begin with, I’m feeling a lot more comfortable about it now. It may be called acceptance. I have over indulged this Christmas, mostly because I was able to. I purchased a barbell and some weights recently. So now, I’m looking forward to getting back to eating well, more protein, healthy fats and fingers crossed, actually putting on some muscle weight just to boost my confidence a bit more. Who doesn’t look good toned, eh?

Second, first appointment

It’s now 2 months since I had my TCRF and I have just realised I never posted anything about it. I will do soon! As I write this, my 3rd period since the surgery is underway. It’s literally just started a few hours ago, so I’m okay at the moment.

I was told by the consultant gynae that they’d let fertility know I’d had the procedure done, but with Covid-19 I didn’t really expect admin to be up to date, so I nervously called fertility myself to let them know I was ready and wanted to know what the next steps would be. I wasn’t sure what I needed to have, so the receptionist said they’d get my file from storage (we’d been on hold for a year) and they’d be in touch with a next appointment. I waited anxiously for a phone call that never came and then was very surprised to see an appointment letter arrive just under 2 weeks later. Like a child excited for Christmas, I eagerly read the letters on the page. Happy and also shocked that my next appointment was in 2 weeks,but also sad that my exes name also appeared.

I called the clinic back and updated them of my relationship status. The lady on the phone asked how long we’d been separated for, which I thought was a little peculiar, but informed her we’d been broken up for nearly a year and that I was doing this as a single person. A few days later and a new date arrived addressed only to me.

They said the appointment was for tests. So, I’m assuming it’s more bloods and an ultrasound scan to check my fibroids for no further changes. I imagine I may have to sign new paperwork too. I’m clearly just clutching at straws here, I’ve got no clue whatsoever what will happen. Hopefully my AMH – egg reserves are as high as they were last time. With the fibroids, I’m just hoping for the best really. I have no idea what’s going on down there! I could’ve sworn they’ve grown and have another up and coming but I really don’t know. I don’t want to guess I’m in a better situation only to be dismayed that I’m not. So, I shall anxiously await my appointment. It’s going to be very strange attending on my own. I hope it isn’t too emotional.

Single Mum-Me

It’s been 10 months since my ex and I ended things. Although I obviously upset by the fact we’d called it a day, the most distressing thing for me was the thought of saying goodbye to motherhood. The chance to have children, I felt had been cruelly snatched away from me. Perhaps it’s harsh to say that was the most hurtful part, but considering we’d been wavering for quite some time, I feel it’s realistic and honest to admit this.

I’ve never really given much musings to the thought of bringing life into the world without being part of a team. A unit. A family. I know women get pregnant from one night stands and have to go it alone, but with my fertility issues, I’ve clearly never opened my mind to this possibility. In a relationship with an ex partner, I was considerably disheartened when he mentioned waiting until he had retired (yes he was old but also in the police) until we had children. This was five years ago and he was due to retire soon, so I would have had to wait until now anyway, but five years ago; that seemed like a lifetime. I’ve wanted this since I was 26 years old and having now arrived at 37, I don’t want it any less.

Thinking about it now, my primary aim in most relationships was having babies – as soon as possible. Clearly, I was into the relationship too, but it almost seemed like a secondary aim. Just a process to go through. I did start pondering more so last year, the idea of being a single parent, single mum, but quickly wrote it off as impossible. When you consider all the people out there who are single parents through no fault of their own, it’s actually quite normal, or rather, it’s a regular occurrence. A part of me feels terribly guilty for all the experiences a child could miss out on if I go it alone. No dad they can reach out to, only one grandparent that lives miles away. No real, old wise peers to offer advice, or tell old stories to. I didn’t really have any of that growing up, but people want the best for their children. I have sisters, nephews and nieces aplenty, but we have a shortage of what I feel would be close, peer support. I worry about whether or not that could affect a child negatively.

The idea isn’t completely crazy. It’s probably doable but will require planning, organisation and ideally support that I don’t currently have, but I’m sure I can find various support systems and resources. It’ll be difficult, really tough and exhausting and a shock to the system; completely life altering, but it’s literally my only option. I’m so nervous about the prospect, but I have never wanted anything more.

I feel more that it’s the feeling of the unknown that is scaring me and giving me doubts, rather than the actual unknown itself. Us humans are actually pretty adaptable creatures when we need to be. I don’t know why I needed to write about doing it, I’m going to do it anyway! “One is never afraid of the unknown, one is afraid of the known coming to an end” – Jiddu Krishnamurti

Fibroids, what they don’t tell you.

So, next month, September will be 4 years since I was diagnosed with fibroids. They haven’t been a plain sailing 4 years. Symptoms have been minimal and also awful. The suffering is both physical and mental, neither less debilitating than the other.

I remember when I looked on the NHS website to see what fibroids were all about and was surprised by the listed symptoms: Frequent Urination, Heavy Bleeding, Tummy Abdominal pain, Painful Sex, Lower Back pain, Constipation. At the time, I thought I don’t get half of that. I’m never constipated, sex is not painful but can be uncomfortable, I rarely get tummy pains. So really only 3 symptoms from what was listed. At that point, I considered myself quite lucky. My fibroids were merely inconvenient.

As time went on, I recall being in debilitating pain. I could no longer get into a car when I was close to my periods or ovulating. Bending down from standing position sent crazy pains through my back and hips. Everything felt stiff, like my body had seized and fluid movements were no longer optional. Standing up for long periods of time would end with shooting pains driving down my legs. Sudden movements would have me doubled over with stabbing pains enveloping my abdomen. I would hobble around like an old lady, taking time to get upright, whilst my hand would support my back with slow movements. I was 35 going on 75, but still I carried on. I didn’t want to moan because others had it worse than me.

My periods slowly got worse. Day 1 would be delightful, spotting that would lead me into a false sense of security. Day 2 was a horror show… That bullshit they tell you about losing 8ml of blood the whole duration of your period. My mooncup was just short of 30ml in volume and I was changing it every 15 minutes! 8ml my arse. Night times were abysmal. The sleep I managed to get was disturbed by having to get up every few hours to empty my cup and change my pad. I began to prepare myself for not getting any sleep. On the nights I found myself peaceful, I would wake covered in blood. A trail left behind on the sheets, in my knickers, and the remenents dribbling down my legs as I clambered half asleep to the toilet. The clean up taking enough time to render me ‘awake’. It was all so tiring.. All this bullshit every single month. Trapped in my home, for fear of leaking all over the place in public. Once my period was finished I’d wait 2 weeks for the ovulation pains to come. I assume the fibroid that had buried my ovary (the ovary that could never be seen on any scans) was the reason for this. It was never ending. Once I got over one lot of pain and discomfort, the next lot was waiting for their turn.

Next, came the decline in my mental health. I wasn’t expecting it. Why would I. This was happening to my body, why should my mind be affected. Silly of me to think it wouldn’t. It started with anxiety. I don’t even remember at what point it happened, but carrying around a spare pair of knickers because a regular affair. I didn’t like going out unless I knew there was a toilet in the near vacinity. When I did go toilet, I’d almost certainly need to go again soon afterwards, usually just for a little dribble but I couldn’t risk not knowing if it was or not. Before car journeys my now ex always used to ask me if I needed the toilet. I don’t know why because we’d have to stop somewhere only minutes into the journey anyway…even if I did go before we left. I hated the feeling of not fully emptying myself properly. As the fibroids grew, the symptoms shifted and changed. Urinary incontinence became urgency. I learnt that sneezing meant wetting myself. Bending down and putting pressure on my bladder would result with a trickle of urine cascading down my legs – standing upright, a slow waterfall ensued.

I began sleeping with a towel under my lower half to mop up any overnight spillages, god forbid I spent the night at my bfs parents. They ALWAYS had white bedding on and light carpets. More anxiety! Then the depression starts to hit. My stomach has lumps and bumps sticking out of it, constantly – depressing. I can’t wear the clothes I want to wear – depressing. My skin looks terrible from all the crazy hormones – depressing. I look pregnant, but I’m infertile – depressing. I had to get my eyebrows tattooed on because being anaemic made my hair thin and fall out. My eyebrows no longer had tails and it affected my confidence – depressing. So little is known about these growths, so you have to advocate for yourself – depressing!

I went on a hen weekend in Benidorm and was 100% looking forward to riding one of those bucking broncos. I’d done it years before and managed to stay on for ages. I thought it’d be awesome. I queued for ages with my friend and told her to go first. It was in a nightclub surrounded by tables full of drunken, idiot guys. Watching her on it and then the sudden realisation of all that pressure I would inflict on my fibroids, all those writhing movements. I was guaranteed to wet myself. I backed out and my friend really couldn’t understand why. I tried to explain it to her, but if you don’t ‘suffer’ yourself, you really don’t get IT. I spent the next few days ruminating about that. It upset me more than I realised and I had to act like I was okay with it. It was awful.

People say that exercise helps, and my word it does. I enjoy walks and I love a run /jog every now and again. I say that, because I have to prepare myself for the consequences, as sometimes I do forget. Running frees my mind, and haults my thinking temporarily. It makes me feel great. The following day however, I can barely operate. It’s as if my fibroids are screaming and my lower half is engulfed with pain and pressure. It’s like my body is expelling something that doesn’t want to come out.

I’ve left myself to suffer for this long, as ultimately I was worried about the impact on my fertility. The always warn you of the possibility of hysterectomy when they explain the operations. I’ve been almost convinced it’d end up happening to me until I researched that an experienced surgeon is key! There is zero point in keeping these things and being pregnant. What sort of life can I offer a newborn if I’m in too much pain to look after it. I’m part way through composing my letter to PALS to get myself sorted once and for all. I know we’re in the midst of a pandemic, but that doesn’t mean I should continue to suffer. It’s been 4 years and that’s more than enough and even too much. I will no longer be a prisoner in my own body.

Please – enjoy your stay.

Completely out of the blue last week, work emailed me and told me they were making my temporary fixed term contract, permanent!

I had no idea this was going to happen. I was only having a conversation a few days prior with one of the other temps about whether or not the company would be likely to extend our contracts and he seemed to think it was likely.

I applied for the job initially as I figured it’d give me some great HR experience and obviously because the money was better. I also HAD to leave the care home for my mental health. The anxiety alone was hard to deal with and I was almost certain I was hurtling towards a breakdown. The job was 6 months fixed term and I liked the thought of not having to stay if it wasn’t for me. Obviously I still have that option! Now, I get to stress a whole lot less about having to find something over Christmas time when my fixed term period would have been coming to an end.

It also means that I can continue to squirrel my money away as much as possible and hopefully get myself on that property ladder for mid next year! Royal Bank of little sister (the pregnant one that has her shit together) has already said she’s happy to lend me some for my deposit, which would be a massive help. She’s offered a substantial amount, but I only want to borrow half and save the other half myself. If I continue with my antisocial ways, fingers crossed I’d have saved what I need to by February /March 2021. Sooooo property prices – please hold up on the inflation! I’m coming for you!

I can’t limbo but I’m in it

Do you ever think of the same thing over and over until you drive yourself crazy!? I know we’re in the midst of a pandemic and quite frankly the worst and scariest of times a lot of the population has ever lived through, but I still feel a fair bit peeved that so much life has been put on hold.

Just before lockdown began in March my local hospital called me for the surgery I’d been waiting since the previous November for. I was really excited and happily booked it for the following week, day 3 of official lockdown. After hearing various reports of how the virus had spread throughout the hospital, I called the next week and anxiously cancelled. I didn’t want to cancel, but working in a care home, I was scared I’d catch it and unknowingly bring it back – killing the residents. How selfless, putting the old folk before my own health needs. I believed the woman on the phone when she told me to call back when it was over and get rebooked in….

I’ve spent more time than is probably recommended after a breakup, with JB, my ex. He’s been my moral support when my anxiety levels are supernova’d and I’ve convinced myself I’m going to die. He’s been great, really great actually, and I’ve found myself at times thinking I’m falling for him over again. We were still sleeping together in February /March. It’s very strange times when one month, you honestly believe someone is an arsehole after the way they’ve treated you and the next moment, finding yourself feeling the complete opposite. He’s different to the man I used to live with… It’s like he has a new respect for life and the position he finds himself in. Let’s face it, no-one really wants to be approaching 40 with no house/wife/shit sorted.. Do they? I think he also feels the same way about me, or maybe I’m reading all the signals wrong.. Who knows. I’ve found myself wondering what’s the point us giving it another go. We’ve already established he can’t cope with my moods and doesn’t think I’d be a stable mother to the child he’s reluctant to have with me. Also, I’m still harbouring some ill feelings about the £20 his auntie gave me for Christmas, that he decided to spend on himself and lie to me about it – To conclude; yes, he still might be a cunt! 😂

I’m finding it difficult to move on from JB, physically & mentally. I joined Bumble before lockdown as, I was feeling sorry for myself and wanted some attention (purely joined the BFF side of it and casually found myself drifting my way over to the dating side) that’s generally why people sign up for these things – I assume. I got talking to someone and then had a breakdown and stopped all contact. I recently went back on, as I was feeling lonely and I do actually want to get over JB. In the current climate, this is the only way. I feel guilty for being on there. My profile states I want kids, because obviously I do. But at what stage am I to reveal my health problems and infertility? 18 months down the line with an engagement ring on my finger seems to be cutting it a bit fine. No man in his right mind would willingly sign up to the heartbreak and uncertainty of ivf. Out of love, surely they’d agree but is it fair to not say anything? I asked a male friend of mine if he’d be put off dating someone who was infertile and he very honestly said yes. There needs to be some sort of manual for this!

The final reason for my Covid-19 limbo is my lodgings. Moving into a studio post breakup was perfect. My own space, no one to bother me or exasperate my moods. Cooking what food I want and not having anyone moaning that there’s too much fish and humans need meat to survive! Only having to nag myself when shit gets messy. Let’s face it, it’s a small space, with very little storage – it’s rarely tidy. Also, I have too much much stuff I’m not willing to rid myself of. I could easily have moved into a beautiful apartment with all the room in the world and a very expensive price tag rent wise, but I decided against it because saving money is more important to me right now. Oddly enough, I’ve been able to save up more than I could ever imagine. I think I’ve saved £300 in the past month alone. But here’s the main concern, IF I was ever to start dating again, I can’t bring them back to mine. I sort of feel ashamed but not really. If they lived in a shared house, I’d like to think they understood, but then people are arseholic (yes, that’s a word) and there’s my little single bed! You can have coitus on it, no problem, but they’ll be none of that post coitus cuddling malarkey going on. I’d literally have to kick them out of bed and in the direction of the chair. I’m not saying I’d be inviting someone back so quickly. Anything that happens, I want to take it very slowly. None of the rushing like I did with JB. I don’t want to physically live with anyone for a while. Perhaps I just really need to be cautious with anyone I meet. Explain my housing situation and if they don’t understand it, there’s no reason at all for me to be wasting any time on them.

So, there we are. My Covid-19, 2020 limbo.

Dating…..and self esteem

(I wrote this in early 2014 – I didn’t realise how poignant it was, until now. Has Pmdd warped the way I think, or do normal people think like this?)

So, I made the decision to start dating again.

It wasnt an easy one, as admittedly I still have very strong feelings for my ex boyfriend. After over 2 years apart, I realise for my sanity I must move on.

My first port of call was dating sites. Don’t get me wrong. I’m more than capable of doing this without them, I just don’t like the whole drunken thing. Its not suitable for me. I did have a few meetings with an ex work colleague, whom I really found attractive. Due to his work commitments and other issues he had, we were unable to get any further. Granted I could’ve just slept with him, but thats not the type of girl i am.

I signed up to POF and started browsing the profiles. I remember being disappointed at the lack of attractive men on there, but figured more would come out of the woodwork! I was very proactive and messaged a few guys. One in particular messaged me back and we began talking over a period of a week or two. Meanwhile I was getting messages from all sorts…none I was attracted too. The guy stopped messaging me and no-one was responding to my messages. For the first time in ages, I felt ugly! I like to think im ok looking, fairly attractive with makeup, probably cute without it. Personality wise I can be shy, but im sarcastic, and have a good sense of humour. Armed with this, im totally puzzled as to why I wasn’t getting a lot of interest.

I ended leaving the site as I felt it dented the confidence id spent ages building up. I know people say looks dont matter, but lets be truthful, they absolutely do! My first set of boyfriends werent much to look at, they had great personalities but thats all. A boyfriend I had a few years ago was very overweight and unattractive….. I convinced myself I loved him cos I thought id never do better. Thats how low my confidence was. I kind of feel like my ex has given me unrealistic expectations of men!! My ex was stunning to look at. Whilst we were together and still for some time after, he’d tell me how attractive I was/am, and helped me discover my self worth. Made me realise I didn’t have to settle for second best, or be someone’s next best.

I know the guys on that site aren’t the entire population of Wales, but it’s still shocked me. Am I attractive enough to date an attractive man?

And it hit me, like a derailed train

Not long after I broke up with JB and was in the midst of trying to find somewhere else to live, I spoke to my sister. We’ve always been very close since we lived together in our little flat all those years ago. For the past few years, we’ve mostly spoken fortnightly, for hours at a time. I always look forward to the calls. She mostly calls me because she has her shit together and she wants to check my shit isn’t falling to pieces.

It was end of February, I’d not long moved out of creepy Derek’s and put down my deposit on the box that is currently my studio flat. I was chilling in the living room, enjoying the last evening on the sofa before JBs parents came to collect them and the phone rang. I was quite pleased it was her, who else would it be, no bugger else calls me!

I can barely remember what we were talking about, other than the usual someone at work had pissed her off and she couldn’t wait to leave in August. I distinctly recall wondering why she was leaving in August and what she’d forgotten to tell me. So I asked and quickly very quickly regretted asking. “I’m knocked up innit” were the words that came out. I felt confused, I didn’t quite understand the joke. I was waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. The tension palpable and my mind blurred. Knocked up, pregnant?!

I was confused and dazed, like a man just learning the consequences of a drunken fumble, I asked her who the dad was. She hadn’t been with her bf for long and I just wasn’t convinced it would be him, but it was. I didn’t even congratulate her. Nothing. I’m surprised I spoke. I have no idea how much longer we spoke for, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything that was said. All I felt was devastation and heartbreak. The words kept tumbling through my head like clothes in a dryer.

I barely slept that night. Selfishly, I felt angry that it wasn’t me, and sad that she hadn’t told me when she found out. Although I take some solice in the fact she hadn’t told everyone else yet. Only mum, her son and bf knew, so I wasn’t completely out of the loop.

It’s taken me a long while to adapt and accept and be excited there’s a new baby joining the family. She has included me in things like sharing scan pictures and choosing the name, which I completely appreciate. It’s made a very difficult journey a little less sensitive. She even asked me to come home for the birth and help look after him. Sounds lush, but I think the reality would be somewhat different and just make my heart ache. Just reporting for simple Auntie duties will do me just fine.