The amazing thing about being a woman is that no matter how many times you live through this delightful little experience, somehow the symptoms take you by suprise the next time they roll around. You, or I, at least, am completely puzzled each time as to why I am crying over hang nails and walking around with a sort of pinched expression. I spend a few days in denial, trying not to think about it until I realize that there is no concievable position that my body could fall asleep in that wouldn't hurt, and then finally after resentfully tossing and turning for a bit, I give in to one of the many over the counter pain killers that I keep on hand just for this sort of purpose and eventually nod off to wake up eminating fluids and smells that under any other circumstances would mean I was dying in hospice care of some sort of flesh rending wound.
Well, so Thursday night had come around. The tooth fairy, ever dilligent in youth and always predictable upon placing a tooth under a pillow, had been replaced by an equally predictable but similarly consistently startlingly novel visits by the blood fairy in adulthood. Though frankly, I think I'd rather find toys or cash in my bed most of the time that what normally results. I laid down, tossed, turned, finally admitted I hurt like hell and if sleep were to be had, I had to stop my sisephean resistance and deal with it.
In this state, I am generally on the brink of starting bleeding and so anything that might speed that process up is welcome because generally the intense discomfort begins to fade with the bloody beginnings. Because I am a masochist, one thing I long ago discovered is that sex can create enough endorphins to overcome a hell of a lot of things. And as another special side effect, the suction created by having sex will often get things started and solve the whiney discomfort.
So, I stumble downstairs naked (no, we don't have curtains on the windows, and yes, I do suspect that our neighbors never look this way out of uncomfortable embarassement, why do you ask?) and I start rubbing J's shoulder. He just melts into almost crying, clearly desperately needing the rubs having been a little feverish and icky feeling the day before and still sort of on the tail end of that set of germs. It quickly becomes apparent that he DESPERATELY needs a real massage. And, hey, I'm up. So what the fuck? So I drag him upstairs to the spare bedroom and give him a pretty long massage which he clearly desperately needed. By the time I'm done, he's crashed out naked, face up on the bed. And well, it was more than I could resist, feeling sort of intesely close to him at that moment and knowing that sex would probably help with my sleeplessness. So I climb on top of him and be silly at him for a few and eventually get his body arroused. We have sort of quick but pleasant sex and both then stumble off to try to get some sleep in our real bedroom.
The next morning I wake up and sort of stumble through morning rituals until it dawns on me that I suspect I probably started bleeding the night before and should take this opportunity to pee and double check, since I'm feeling dramatically less owie and that's usually the pattern. Only problem being that I hadn't started bleeding. My uterus, except for a very occassional twinge, had settled back into being a part of the organ's republic of Amy. I had a completely ridiculous moment of squeezing my boobs in various places and ways (They're triple D's, it can take a couple of grabs. Don't look at me that way.) and they mostly didn't hurt either. A little tender still, but no more tom-tom practice.
So, now I'm baffled. I start thinking back. Was I really sure it was PMS? Yes. Cysts sometimes burst and make my lower abdomen tender, but I've never had them make my boobs feel that way or cause crying jags. Was it on cycle for PMS? Well, I remember thinking it seemed early, but then I usually think that, being suprised that it is remotely possible that several weeks has passed since the last annoying hassle involving blood containment triage techniques. So really I have no idea if it was on schedule or not.
This triggers another spiral of utter confusion and panic which lead to the post about panic attacks on the subject of my body and what on earth it is doing. So I eventually calm myself down and decide that it's likely that it's just still about to start. And everything has stayed just a little tender all weekend, but nothing like it was before playing with J that night. I gave in to the panic monster and did another pregnancy test on Saturday after the electrician got the hot tub working, figuring that that was at least a remotely legitimate excuse to need to know. It came up negative. I figured it was probably just weirdness and still about to start. Great theory. And like so many others, apparently false. It's Sunday night now and no blood has appeared on the nether horizons.
The test was false. It's possible that my hormones are weird enough that the test is just wrong. It's possible it was too early to detect. It's possible that something (though I can't imagine what having never experienced in all of my adult life before) caused a false perfect duplicate of PMS.
The whole thing is REALLY not doing anything to help with the whole feeling ridiculous and baffled problem. Clearly I have just been taken over by aliens and one is about to spring from my head or something, Mnemosyne style. I have no bloody idea at this point.