The Regurgitating Uterus and Where the Wild Hairs Are

Zube Boy peers over my shoulder while I'm doing a bit of googlin'...

Z-Boy: Brown spotting?

Z-Girl: Yeah, honey. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on down there. That's ALL I've had is brown spotting, and not much at that.

Z-Boy: Would it make you feel better to know that sometimes I have brown spotting in my undies, too?

Z-Girl: Yes.

Z-Boy: Okay, then. I do.

Z-Girl: Ew. ffffff-ffffffff*

I'm still hanging out, waiting for the damn fat lady to sing her ass off already. I have to have my blood drawn again tomorrow, and I'm like GAH!!! ENOUGH WITH THE NEEDLES! Hate them. Loathe them. But, I'm really curious to know what my counts are because I still FEEL pregnant. Like, don't come within an inch of my titties or you'll lose your damn head. Which is making this whole escapade worse, in a way. I keep thinking about the fact that I was a twin, and Mom lost one of us, so maybe that's what's going on here? But, my numbers still shouldn't have dropped like they did. I don't think. This dragging on of events is keeping my hope on life support, and, well, I had a VERY strong opinion regarding the Terri Shaivo debacle. It's time to pull the damn plug already.

Z-Girl: It's OVER! Okay. OVER. Not gonna happen.

Hope: But, the last TWO TIMES your symptoms disappeared before everything went awry. This time they haven't.

Z-Girl: I know, but could you please SHUT UP already! PLEASE! Could it just be tomorrow? I need to know what the flip is going on with my uterus. If it's going to regurgitate, I'd like for it to get on with it already.

Hope: There's still hope.

Z-Girl: Shut up. For real. It's not that I don't like you, Hope, but things are dire. And you're making it difficult for me to accept that.

Hope: You can still hope.

Z-Girl: Meh.

Hope: Hope-ity, hope, hope?

Z-Girl: GOD you're annoying.

Hope: You, too.

Z-Girl: I know.

Regardless of all this inner turmoil, Zube Boy and I are sprouting wild hairs in the oddest of places. Our respective asses. There has been talk of running off to Mexico. Preferably the Yucatan. Not permanently. No, no, no. We're far too responsible for that. But for three or four weeks. Just to get away and do some version of the 'Nanny-Nanny Boo-Boo' dance on Project- Make a Baby. What could be more fun than getting jiggy on a beach without peeing on ovulation predictor sticks first?

I'd like to enjoy the gift of the time we've been given. Just the two of us. Shit. Is this a bright side? Am I going soft on ya'll? No. I'm trying to deal with this crap on my terms. You know? Suffice it to say that if any of YOU told me that maybe this was a blessing? I'd kick your ass. And I'm sure you'd expect nothing less. Because you're geniuses like that.

Anywho, I'm okay and I'm not okay. All at the same damn time. It's like duplicitous is my middle name these days. One minute, I'll want to crawl in a hole and die, and the next I'll be thinking, "Why don't you just crawl up your uterus? That seems to do the trick." And I'll laugh. The laughter of a very sick individual. Which is comforting. Because at least it means I'm still in here, among all this chaos. Being a big old bitch. As usual. Heh.


*That's how sound when I'm trying to be annoyed, but laughing despite myself.