Yesterday began with a few laughs as I attempted to wake up one of my shacking girlfriends for work (think Frankenstein)-no I’m not exaggerating...she is as bad as me in the morning. I took an hour bath and even a longer shower listening to The Soloist on my waterproof shower cd player. I took my time getting ready. I shaved my legs twice and used microderm abrasion on my face in an attempt to dissolve the stress induced grease factory that has become my face. I exfoliated and used my new Daisy by Marc Jacobs body wash.
All the time and care I was putting into getting ready was an attempt to divert from the appointment I would barely make at 11:30. I threw on a fitted tee and rejoiced at my success of not “looking pregnant” as I did the last time I went to Woman’s’ Hospital. I wore this really pretty orange long maxi dress that everyone loved…and seemed to be the uniform style of every expecting mother in the entire building. I grabbed a denim mini skirt, realizing that I am about 6 years too old to wear anything like this, and pulled my bangs back in my usual school girl style.
I had thirty minutes left. Somehow my attempt to waste time left me with some to spare. I began cleaning bathrooms and threw my new sheets in the washer so they would be fresh for my recovery movie marathon that afternoon. The Parking lot was the usual, deadlocked at a quarter till my appointment, guaranteeing I would be late. Five pregnant women stood in line for the elevator in front of me and one had a head full of grey hair and a little toddler jumping around. It was quite a questionable scene, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I would find myself in a mid life pregnancy.
I arrived at the receptionist desk on the fifth floor where I had to sign verification papers because I somehow forgot my insurance card. So I sit in the waiting room for about 3 seconds before I get called to the scale. When I saw that the six pounds that I gained miraculously turned into ten, I instantly thought of the new yoga DVD that I grabbed off of the impulse isle at Marshall’s and vowed to try it…this week.
I answered the usual questions and my blood pressure was higher than usual-shocker-I dropped the tweener teenage skirt and reached for the rough paper sheet as I took my place sitting Indian style on the exam table. My doctor, whose name is ironically Sunshine, stepped in with her predictable chipper banter and went over the last test results and the current procedure options.
After tears, gritting teeth and a few apologies from her, it was over. I lay sweating on the table waiting for the room to stop spinning and for my stomach to descend from my throat. As I checked out and make my next appointment I realized that this is just the beginning and I had better decide to toughen up now or I was really going to fall later.
At home I embraced my rehab plans with The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 1 and 2; both of which are movies I would NEVER watch on a regular basis. I ate ice cream and drank coke from glass bottles in my favorite super soft purple night gown.
The rest of the night was a pretty rapid descent where I cried, debated whether or not to take pain meds or drink whiskey and ignored 8 calls and 3 text because I couldn’t bear to have one more person ask me how I felt or if it was “that bad.”
After two hours of reading Grimm’s Fairytales from my iphone, I eventually surrendered to the Hydrocodone.
Today, will be much better.
