Circling

Today I am deep in the crazies. Of course I am. Yesterday we heard the "f" word at our doctors appointment and once either Bruno or I hear that word, it is like some sort of hypnosis trigger: the sane parts of ourselves fall into a deep trance and the crazy people are left running the show.

When Bruno came home last night and I gave him the rest of the doctor's report, it was exactly how I feared (minus the swimming to Croatia part). He yelled at me to get in bed (he wouldn't continue talking to me until I walked to the bedroom and laid down in bed), yelled at my belly to tell my cervix to stop funneling, yelled at the ceiling that it couldn't give us one G.D. day of peace. He yelled for a while.

We've both been in kind of a zombie state since then. Breakfast was a dreary drudge, and then he was off to work, and I was off to paranoia land. My buttocks keep falling asleep: is that because my cervix has opened?! I eat a snack and my belly gets hard with digestion: is that a contraction? I had one yesterday I'm pretty sure: is this a new pattern?! I called Mom and it's been an hour and she hasn't called me back: she must be furious with me for the e-mail I sent yesterday and Dad must be mad at me too and how dare they be mad at me right now, don't they know I am hanging on by a thread over here. A few hours later, I get a sunny phone call from Mom saying how she's been out most of the day, just getting my message now, and hopes today is a good day for me.

The pinnacle of the crazy was when I was lying in bed this afternoon, trying to take a nap, and I realize that the p17 shot they gave me yesterday didn't hurt at all. Normally they sting like mad and it lasts for two hours. This shot didn't hurt even for a minute. I conclude that they must have forgotten to draw the medicine up into the shot and instead shot my ass full of air! As I type the words now, a few hours post-nadir, I can't help but laugh out loud: even I recognize how insane this thought was.

I stand in the kitchen, holding the medicine bottle in my hand, trying to assess how much is left, crying with the impotence of it. A small (oh so small) voice of reason reminds me that the bottle I am holding contains hormones and maybe, just maybe, the proof that the shot did contain more than air is the outrageously irrational fears I am buying into at this very moment. I throw on my shoes and leave the house. The fresh air and sunshine immediately start to cut through the crazy. A call to my sister-in-law while I walk finishes the transition. Thank goodness.

Of course, as I write this, my buttocks have fallen asleep again, and I wonder...