One every couple hours? At my worst I was going through super-duper tampons every fifteen minutes, even with a major secondary support system. Not only was this a bear at work but if I had to go anywhere or do anything that forced me to stretch the intervals—whoa! I have some horrible memories. I have never for a second regretted my hysterectomy at 48; never once since then have I ever thought, “Gee, I wish I were bleeding.”
For most such knockout ailments, from a beastly cold to (most recently) a broken arm, my preferred response is to lie on the sofa and whimper and be catered to by my family.
The whimpering part is more easily come by than the catering part, I’m afraid, but I’m grateful for what I can get.
I go for distractions (absorbing BBC mininseries) and naps (no such thing as too many) and small indulgences (ice cream). And I do cling fiercely to the belief that it will pass.