Very Few Facts, Week 25

Nearly two weeks of bed rest accomplished, and so far we've kept the civilian casualties to a minimum; my Mom took a pretty direct hit on a particularly moody day last week, but seems to be recovering well. Those of you who know her, please feel free to give her a call or shoot her an e-mail to aid in her convalescence.

And to be honest, I'm a bit moody today, but I'm starting to learn the ups and downs of the wicked P17 shots: it seems the day before a shot and the day after a shot, I'm at my most vulnerable. I suppose that makes sense as the hormone waxes and wanes in my system. I really am becoming my own solar system over here, especially as my mass increases to the point where it threatens to have its own gravitational pull.

Mama Ratka arrived last Thursday, and what a beautiful blessing that has been. I must admit that in my very American way, I was terribly resistant to having anyone living with us for more than a few days, nevermind for a whole month. But the surprises in this journey never cease, and, as it turns out, having a new energy in the house has really helped the days move by more quickly. Speaking in Croatian nearly all the time keeps me from getting too worried or too heady: I simply don't have the words for it. And then there are the ten years that dropped off Bruno's face and posture moments after his Mama stepped into our home. His brow has smoothed and his eyes have brightened and it is so beautiful to see.

And so, on we amble, minute by minute. I have been graced with a swarm of new students who don't seem to mind being tutored by a large whale reclining on a yellow couch, and my days are filled with preparing lessons in everything from logarithms and graphing rational functions to the rise of the Ottoman Empire. And every hour or so, Mama Ratka appears at the bedroom door to ask what I need.

I haven't been seen by a doctor for nearly two weeks now, and won't be seen by one for another week yet. Sometimes this worries and upsets me as I wonder what is happening in there. But then the girls double team me, one of them kicking my ribs while the other kicks my bladder, and I am left to assume that everyone is, well, alive and kicking.

And as for Cedric the Cervix: don't know what is happening with him, but again, there is nothing to do but lean back into the pillows and believe. Believe that the doctors know what they are doing, believe that the stitch is doing its job, believe that the bed rest is making a difference: making things different.

I hope this isn't premature (to turn a phrase), but I think I'm starting to believe.