Pot-bellied bleeding and other tales from the tarmac

I had a vague idea to write something this week about the things I use to help me be productive. Then I had an unproductive week due to more gynaecological upheaval. I was going to leave it at that because that’s what we are supposed to do to be polite but no: this is what “gynaecological upheaval” means. Since my HRT was switched to a different regime in November, I have had:

— three months of bleeding

— two months of no bleeding and thinking it was all over (as I’m on continuous progesterone, I’m not supposed to bleed any more)

— but no. I had a sort of bleed with exhausting period pain a few weeks ago, then this week another.

And I will now describe “period pain” for you: your uterus is cramping and you can feel it. It hurts. There is a dull and constant pain that in my case makes me gasp out loud. In the end I had to get co-codamol from the chemist, as regular painkillers don’t touch this pain (dunno, science, maybe invent one that does?). I took two co-codamol and they knocked me out. I knew that they might, as I have taken them before. In fact I know co-codamol so intimately, when the chemist read the co-codamol script of “have you taken then before don’t take them for more than three days do you know they may make you drowsy” I said, “yes, and don’t forget about the constipation too.” Constipation: the great unsaid effect of strong painkillers. When I had my first laparoscopic surgery to “treat” my endometriosis (it didn’t treat it, it dampened it and the endo came back), I was given diclofenac. I’d never had it before, and I was given no instructions beyond “take it when things hurt.” I did, because things hurt, and then was severely constipated for ten days. By the end of those ten days, I would happily have swapped untreated post-surgical pain for being able to take a shit.

But nobody warned me.

I have no idea why my uterus is cramping so badly. I have no idea why I bled for three months and why I’m still getting bleeding episodes. Nobody warned me. In short, I am still in the “what the f* is my body doing?” stage of menopause. Though it doesn’t have to be menopause. I know women who are dealing with all sorts of crap while on the pill, off the pill, after the pill, in perimenopause, in menopause, after childbirth. And we are supposed to just endure and as Jack Reacher would say, nuts to that.

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This weekend I will run around 7.8 miles of the Calderdale Way with my clubmate Martha, as part of the Calderdale Way relay race. I love relay races; they are fun, and at my end of the field not stressfully competitive, and you get to run with good company. But the logistics of it always do my head in, because you have to somehow organise yourself and your clubmates to get to the start and the finish. If you do it with cars, you have to leave a car at the finish, then drive to the start, then at the finish drive back to the start to get the car that you left there. That’s one thing. The other is, which kit goes in which car. I know of at least two occasions where car keys for the car at the finish have been left in the car at the start. On Sunday, we will try to simplify this by driving to the finish and taking a taxi to the start. That way you can only carry the kit you run with and that simplification soothes my brain.

Several people have asked me if I ran the inaugural Leeds marathon on Sunday. Not quite inaugural, but the first marathon in Leeds for 20 years. And this one was special becuase it was the Rob Burrow marathon in aid of motor neurone disease research. I didn’t run it, because I asked Run for All if they had press places and they said no (and I’m too used to fell race entry fees to pay £80 to run 26.2 miles around Leeds on a road). I slightly regretted that parsimony when I went to support, cycling to the Otley Road, though not when I realised how hot it was (my ideal running climate is 5-9 degrees celsius and overcast). The atmosphere was fabulous, not least because of these folk. I’m a sucker for a good bagpipe. Plus all the tartan malarkey.

As for the runners, I saw my neighbour Simon, my friend Marion, various acquaintances from other running clubs, a man dressed as a Minion, another dressed as Cookie Monster (I think), loads of people wearing the MND charity vest. And then this:

Pic by Louise O’Brien

Kev Sinfield pushing Rob Burrow for 26.2 miles, in hot weather and on a very hilly course. And it was so moving that all my parsimony and road-race cynicism disappeared. And when I saw this 👇 I cried.

Then again, there is this view of it, from a wheelchair user.

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Animal hero of the week: LuLu the pig

How do I find my heroic animals? I go to Google and then pick the 45th page or so, because most of the preceding 44 are for Clare Balding’s book “Heroic Animals”. I search in French or Italian. I go to the PDSA and equivalents to see who they have awarded medals to. I try every variation of “heroic animals” that I can think of. And somehow via all that I found LuLu the pig.

LuLu was a mostly black potbellied pig from Pennsylvania. By 1998, she was living with her original owner’s parents JoAnn and Jack Altman. One day, while Jack and JoAnn were staying in a camping trailer, Jack was out fishing, and JoAnn had a heart attack. JoAnn tried to call for help, but no-one came. The dog barked but no-one came. So LuLu the pot-bellied pig escaped from the backyard, having to force herself through wire or something that cut her and left her bleeding. Then — and oh, LuLu, how I love you — she went and lay down in the middle of the road and played dead. How intelligent is that? It involves all sorts of exceptional brain power regarding risk and hypotheses. Pigs are far too intelligent to become bacon.

Some drivers just drove around her. I mean, obviously a pig lying in the road is not your concern. But one kind driver stopped to see if the big fat pig lying apparently insensible on the road was OK. He called out to say he had found an injured pig; JoAnn heard him and called back, and LuLu thus saved JoAnn’s life. She became famous, appearing on Letterman, Oprah and many other TV shows. May we all have a fat pig to save us.