April 13, 2004

  • Not much time to write, but Easter was fun.   Ashleigh needed to go up to Frisco anyway late last week for a business convention, so "Why not come along and we'll do the holiday at Mom's?"   So we did, just the three of us including Maya, whom we didn't want tearing up the whole house during a separation anxiety attack.    


    Ashleigh almost got us killed on the way there; some condensation formed on the windshield passing Santa Barbara and, when she flicked the wipers to sweep it off, the glass smudged badly, obscuring the view.   From the look of it, very bad squashed gnats.   Like trying to peer through waxed paper.  


    "Tina, I can't see," big sister moaned, begging me to take over the wheel as we managed to follow the traffic around the bend at 70 miles per hour. 


    "Pull over!"


    "I can't!"


    I urged her to hit the soap button and keep going.   Luckily there was plenty of window cleaning fluid in the wiper reservoir; it took three wash cycles before we could clear two half moons.   That was close!    Ashleigh always drives like a maniac, anyway; we never cease to wonder why she's never been in any bad wrecks.    I drove most of the way back.


    Whew!   Tired.    Where was I?   (Adding this two days later.)    Yeah, Easter.   This year, the folks went traditional Italian with stuffed breast of veal, fresh asparagus tips in lemon garlic sauce, and parsleyed potatoes; for dessert, lemon ice garnished with mint, and torta di ricotta, a light cheesecake with candied fruit and toasted pine nuts, baked in a pie crust with a glazed latticed top.   Afterwards, we caught a play downtown.   Greg was still in Aspen.   It was refreshingly peaceful and quiet.     


    I couldn't believe how Maya took to Daddy.   To keep her away from Chloe, we had to  sequester her in the basement, the old man's territory.   When I went down to check on her Sunday afternoon, I found the two boisterously playing fetch together.   Pop always was a dog person.   ("Cats are so goddamned fussy!")   As you've probably guessed, we decided to leave her there.   It's really the best for all of us.    More stable for Maya, and great relaxation for Dad.    It's not like I failed her.   She's still part of the family; I can see her any time I want.    (Brett:   "What are parents for?")    So I don't feel at all guilty; just relieved.  


    Really right now I'm too wiped out to care much about anything.   Out jogging by myself around campus Tuesday night, I started to feel a little sick.   First, my uterus felt super heavy as if I had prolapse or something; each step was really jarring.  Then, though I'd gone only three-fourths of mile, I broke into a sweat and got kind of weak.   So I trudged back home, ate a few Ak Mak wholewheat crackers with mozzarella, and went straight to bed without showering or brushing my teeth.   In the middle of the night, I woke up with bad cramps.   So I was starting my period; no wonder I felt so shitty.   It was a bad one, too; when I got up from bed to go to the john, the room spun briefly and  hot blood began to trickle down my legs.   I turned the night light on to grab a handful of kleenex and saw I was bleeding really heavily; in only two minute's time, a red puddle had collected at my feet.   I must've really overexerted myself; I never start flowing like that on the first day.    It frightened me.   I glanced across the room to find Chelle awake and watching me vacantly.   Embarrassed, I grimaced, signaling her to turn over and go back to sleep, but she continued to stare as if I were a figure in a nightmare.   Damn her.


    I told Donna about it the next morning and she was dead certain I was having a miscarriage, especially being I was a little late.   But I'm often irregular and frowned at her in denial.   


    "You should take a P-test; if you're preg'd, you need to get a D and C to prevent infection," she cautioned, sounding like Carole over Blaine.   "I've got a kit in the bathroom linen cabinet if you want."


    I thanked her, but ignored the nagging temptation to confirm my fears.   Frankly, I don't really want to know.   Ever since the unnecessary MAP and its penalty of sickness and social grief, I've had enough of being the health-wise woman and have gone to the other extreme.  (Donna:  "Acting like we still live in the jungle and wear rags of banana leaves!")   Hell, women somehow survived primitive times without any medical care but herbs and good luck spells; I probably will, too.   


    But, wow, me preggered!    It's like God has given me something real to fantasize about when I picture my current crush as a gallant knight away in battle, something to feel a small sense of accomplishment over (now that the baby's conveniently out of the way).   I'm not only a "real" woman, but share a common bond with my peers.