They don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me, it’s probably a combination of IBS and worsening endometriosis, but so far I have eschewed more surgical investigations (I AM MADAME OVARY). John and I endlessly discuss the state of my bowels like Tom with Viv. All the mad wives, once they are named as ill, obsessively recording every aspect of the organic. Following whatever routine they thought would provide relief—while all along it is impressed upon them that it’s probably psychological, the result of nerves.
