I've always had a bad relationship with my period - it started out with getting my first one *way* earlier than expected, and at the worst possible time (when I was staying with Dad temporarily, rather than Mom. I think he was more scarred by the occasion than I was, but not by much.)
Things didn't get much better over the years - I was wildly irregular (not having one for 4 or 5 months, then getting one that lasted 2 weeks, that sort of thing.) Also, while most of the time, it was just a standard chore to deal with, every once in a while I'd get hyper-cramps - you know, the kind of cramps where you feel like passing out from the pain. Cramps where the only possible way to avoid killing random strangers was to grab a bag of bad chocolate (Hershey level bad, not Brachs level bad) and some Harlequins and hole up in the bedroom for a day or two. Lizzie Borden level cramps is what I'm talking about here.
Anyway, one of the few positives from developing uterine cancer is that my uterus shut down for business, essentially. At one point, my doctor gave me this test to check to see if I was menopausal - the scale went from 1 to 9, 1 being the equivalent of menstruating right now, 9 being fully transitioned. I, of course, was a zero (because I refuse to be normal), which Mom claims means I haven't hit puberty yet. But anyway... no more bleeding, no more PMS, no more cramps.
Until today. Today, Hank let me down. Again. Back to the curl yourself in a ball and hate the world type cramps. And that's on Oxycodone - I can't imagine what this would feel like straight. Listen up, Hank. Get in line and do your job, or I'm going to have to trade you in for fibromyalgia or some other easier-to-deal-with disease.
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