Flotsam

Hi! Hello! I’m back! I feel like a new woman—or, at the very least, like a slightly-used-but-none-the-worse-for-wear woman. I made a full mental recovery more or less the instant the Nearly stepped over the threshold of our apartment—he is like a soothing unguent applied to my flayed and battered nerves.
I am, however, woefully behind due to the flurry of catastrophe that was last weekend—I have email to respond to, blogs to read, and even presents I never managed to mail. So I will strive for brevity.

A few updates:
• Apparently it is a good thing I didn’t accompany the Nearly to Iowa for Christmas. The Pregnant Cousin (miscarried after me, now due in April) was there, pregnantly, bearing…ultrasound pictures!
Now wouldn’t that have been awkward. Especially if I had brought my own—“See, here is the collapsing gestational sac, and see that smudge, with the pennies over its eyes?”
It upset the Nearly greatly, actually–he had a very hard time being around The Pregnant Cousin. Poor crumpet.

• Yesterday I queued up once more for the Diagnostic Tilt-a-Whirl—more blood was drawn from me than has ever been drawn from me before: a handful of tubes for Day 3 tests, and a bushel of tiny vials for what, I assume, was at least the Thrombophilia portion of the Repeat Pregnancy Loss panel.
Now, I know what you are thinking: “I assume” doesn’t really sound like the “Show Me the Numbers,” pie-chart-making Alexa you know and mock mercilessly love, does it?
Well, I am trying to Let Go and Let Doctor, at least a little.
I will call for the results of the Day 3 portion of the bloodwork tomorrow*, but after that I will wait—patiently–for January 6th, when I have an appointment with Dr. Doctor. Until then, I am trying not to think about anything related to that region**.

So, on with the show.
Two posts ago, I invited you, my fair readers, to ask me questions. And you did! I am going to answer the seasonal question first, before it becomes unseasonal:

OvaGirl, of Australia, writes…

Q: “How about something for the festive season? Best Christmas ever, worst Christmas ever, that kind of thing…”

A: Well, Worst Christmas is easy. Best Christmas…it is tempting to say last year, but I don’t know if violent morning sickness and crippling exhaustion are features appropriate to a “Best Christmas Ever.” So I will give you “Favorite Christmas Moment,” instead:

{First, a note: I was a dramatic child, fond of the grand gesture, possessed of a rather trying surfeit of imagination. I had barely learned to walk when—infuriated at the lack of attention I was being paid during a dinner party held by my parents—I climbed from my crib, waddled into the living room in my diaper, and announced to the assembled guests: “Hello, I’m Suzy, your Cruise Director.” This was my first sentence–gleaned from the episodes of Love Boat watched by my babysitter.}

I am not sure whether I actually remember the following incident, or only think I do because the story has been told to me so many times—I was very young. Two, maybe. Old enough to talk, small enough to be held by my mother.
So. It is Christmas Eve, 1980-ish. My mother and father took me to midnight mass. Now, neither of them had ever been, were then, or are now, Catholic, but Oh! The Architecture! The Pageantry! So despite the fact that they both had a healthy disdain for all things religious, there we were at the St. Paul Cathedral—only a block from where the Nearly and I live now—at midnight on Christmas Eve.
I was asleep in my mother’s arms. The choir was singing, an organ was playing, there were no other sounds save an occasional cough or reverent sigh.
People passed along the aisles distributing unlit candles. The lights were extinguished in preparation for the candle-lighting.

It was at this point that I awoke, in the blackest darkness, and came to what seemed to me a natural conclusion:
“My EYES!” I cried, “My EYES! SOMETHING’S HAPPENED TO MY EYES!”

*The day of the Nearly’s SA. He is quite adorably concerned with the results—I think if he could study for it, he would.
**The Nether Region.