All change, a-bloody-gain

Back on a handful of homeopathic 'don't panic' pills after an horror-inducing conversation with the perennially upbeat Harriet.  She could tell me they were about to amputate a limb, it would still come out all perky.  Apparently the return of my periods lead to a number of options a) nothing [preferred by me], b) reduce your oestrogen levels by going back on the Zolodex [no, no and thrice no], or c) eliminate oestrogen in perpetuity by removing my ovaries.  

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It's been a long time since I've been that terrified by a phone call.  Even though my much trusted medical team may leave me well alone, the very thought of having more surgery, being slowly deleted, bit by bit, terrifies me.  The prospect of any more hospital procedures makes my heart sink;  but more importantly, I hadn't come to terms with the infertility thing at all, had I?  A few brief days back on panty liners and paracetomol and I've already fantasised about a miraculous, unexpected pregnancy with which to amaze and amuse the neighbourhood. 

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The operation even has a comedy name, Oophorectomy, distant cousin to a German oompah band.  They're not going to get me anywhere near that, unless I am in grave danger without it.  It shouldn't matter, I ought to be pragmatic, but it's my body, and it matters to me.  I'd like to keep my periods and my fantasies a while longer, thanks all the same.

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Good thing work phoned an hour before that, not an hour later, because I was remarkably perky then, and I'm a wreck now.