For those of you not up-to-date (and it's sometimes a little hard to reach all 24 of you), I've been coming off my long term medication, since the start of the year. The intention is to have med-free sperm available for mid-May, thus enabling myself & Crocodile Snooze to start planning a family.
I've been on a drug called methotrexate for twenty years now.
It's a frighteningly powerful immuno-suppressant drug, often used in recovering cancer patients, and effective in combatting the anti-bodies responsible for associated rheumatoid arthropathies.
This is Week 4 without any methotrexate at all.
I can't begin to tell you how painful this all is.
The thought of continuing to decline in health, at this very rapid rate, for the next 11 weeks, is more depressing than following myself on Twitter.
I have a window of opportunity every day, where my distalgesia collides with my anti-inflammatories, in which I have to decide upon a physical task to complete, avoiding anything sharper than paper, and everything that could traumatise my extremities.
Stairs, shoes, hard-floors, firewood, tin cans, tables, jars and child-proof lids are all becoming inaccessible or potentially dangerous.
My half-hour bath is now a ten minute job, leaving me twenty minutes to get in & out.
I know every character in The Archers inside-out (and I still detest Pip).
And I've even started reading a book.
This is Week 4.
By Week 15, I will have clean & healthy sperm.
Not only med-free, but booze & nicotine free as well.
Crocodile Snooze can then think about giving up the Marvelon & Pinot Grigio at a time suitable to her career and social life, but in 11 weeks time I will have almost done my bit.
All I have to do is get myself from Beccles to King's Hospital in London, part with £400, and wank into a jam jar.
Piece of piss.