They Play With The Box More Than The Present Anyway

I spent Harry’s allocated Christmas present budget on myself today.

*ducks*

*carefully pokes head back above the parapet to face righteous ire of internet*

In my defence, I’ve spent it booking a private ultrasound scan. My GP informed me chirpily earlier on today that the waiting list really wasn’t too bad for ultrasound presently – at which news, I exhaled gently in relief. Then he added that they would almost certainly see me before the new year. At which, I inhaled again rapidly and reached for the cheque book.

I’ve spent 3 out of the last 5 dawns either huddled groaning on the floor, or stood rocking back and forth, with acute epigastric pain. I have an hour or so of rising niggle just under my breastbone, followed by another hour of quite grown-up ouchy and nausea. It peaks, and then fades away over quarter of an hour or so, leaving me absolutely wiped out and fit for nothing except a rather lumpy and oversized draught excluder. The fact that it always starts in the late small hours is unhelpful when your toddler is currently suffering  from what appears to be particularly advanced tuberculosis, and isn’t settling into a doze until… ooo, about the late small hours, really.

This upsurge in frequency and severity has been highly inconvenient, although John is now sufficiently alive to the fact of my pain to not audibly mutter under his breath about having to take a bouncy, magnetised-to-puddles, tractor-adoring, pedal-stamping, lever-pulling, wheel-grabbing, button-pressing, troublesome toddler farming first thing in the mornings, because his mother is huddled in a heap and groaning variations on a theme of FUCKOFFDON’TTOUCHMELEAVEMEALONE ITBLOODYHURTSBUGGEROFF. Harry hinders safe agricultural working practice considerably, but oh my, has such a fabulously good time on the yard. His shrieks of desperate, flailing protest at having to return home for entirely optional things like, you know, breakfast, are armour-piercing quality.  

By the end of breakfast, for which meal Harry is generally sedated with an offering of The Discerning Toddler’s Choice: The Farmer’s Weekly, I am usually emerging from the pain cloud. By mid-morning I’m pain-free and keen to eat something. Rennies have done nothing for me, so it’s unlikely to be an ulcer, and I am really, really hoping like absolute bloody hell that it’s a galloping great case of gallstones. I view all of the other diagnoses with deep dislike and I cordially reserve the right to not have any of those, thanks. If the scan shows nothing – then I’m officially pissed; it’s consultant referral, camera-down-the-throat, barium follow-through (yummy) and CT scans. Awesome. Not that a gall bladderectomy was what I wanted for Christmas, you understand, but I’ll take that in preference to anything else.  

Incidentally, Harry’ll probably still get his climbing frame. No need to start re-directing your shoeboxes

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