Name Game etc

[November 23, 2009]

Since we already have a perfect name picked out for a girl, we've been throwing around boy names to see if we can agree on one. So far, no luck. Boy names are stupid or just played out or too predictable. Boy monikers are so ordinary and typically associated with an already established strong character, either hero or villain. Carey wore me down to have her dad's name be included if we have a male. So the middle name is Samuel and the last name is Wagler (her idea). It's the first name that's the challenge. Last time around I almost got her to agree to the name Dean. Dean Samuel Wagler which would be sweet except that his initials would be DSW (Designer Shoe Warehouse). I had several epiphanies during one of these name game conversations and remembered a far out guy in elementary school named Cosmo. The last day of fourth grade he showed up to school with a full-on mohawk. That guy was awesome! I'm also partial to naming our boy Blue (not really, but Carey hates it so much I can't help but keep up the charade). Both names Carey absolutely despises. She's dropped Harrison and George a few times pretending like it was the first time she thought of them. I didn't buy it and I'm not a fan. It's a good thing we're having a girl.

Carey is still afflicted with the gift of superpower smell. Last night she had to hide upstairs while my jasmine rice cooked. Rice! How could she be bothered by the aroma of delicious rice? This is definitely a different side effect of her pregnancy. She's also lost her appetite and gets a little bit sick just about every day. We are hoping these are positive signs toward a healthy term.

The other night Carey told me that I love her more when she's pregnant. She thinks I'm more affectionate, or patient or whatever. I think it's just because she's really happy being pregnant. When she's in a pleasant mood and not focusing on what she thinks I should be doing at that very moment, then yes, maybe I am nicer. But then out of the other side of her mouth she hinted that I need to read up and be knowledgeable on all of the parenting styles. Being a hater of self-help type books, I declined. She pushed a little more accusing me of probably being a pushover if for instance our child throws a tantrum. Naturally I took umbrage and sarcastically thanked her for her vote of confidence. We're like 7 weeks in and she's already criticizing my untested parenting skills. In public I think I'll be pretty good about shutting down tantrums or taking the screaming child out of the environment for a few basic reasons. First off, I hate, hate, hate parents that ignore their shrilly, wale-of-the-banshee children. It is the bane of my otherwise lovely existence working at the public library. Secondly, I've got anxiety issues (panic attacks) that would force me to react quickly in a public scene. To keep myself from freaking out, I feel I would be practiced and on top of that situation. So there. It is true, however that I'm not by nature a disciplinarian. But that's because I am a rebel at heart. I'm anti the man. I'm more of an outlaw then a member of the law. Rules are for squares and so on. But I can play bad cop if need be. I'll just need some practice.

Carey's lack of appetite for food is unfortunately in balance with her appetite for the physical expression of love, if you know what I mean. Our sessions have dropped dramatically to once a week and now we are pushing beyond that which is very unusual in our 6 almost 7 year relationship. At this stage in the game the most exotic, kinky crazy sexual thing I can even imagine is me and Carey in a two-way. The one-way I've got down, rest assured. I'm ready for stage two pregnancy where Carey's libido is in fifth gear. We'll see how THAT goes for a change.

News and Stink

[November 16, 2009]

First off, Carey got in trouble with me. She told both sets of parents in one day without consulting with me or offering for me to be there with the good news. She spilled her guts after dinner a few Sundays ago. I forgave her, but seriously thought about demanding reparation in the form of a sexual favor of my choosing. Her reason was that she needed support because it's a big question mark whether this one will take. It still would have been nice if she talked with me first... A week later she told me that she told her business partner too. I gave her a little bit of the bizness, but she's promised this is it unless I'm notified. From here on out.

The week after Group Death confirmed her most recent pregnancy, she got that weak, stomach pain thing where after work she just came home all bedridden craving mac and cheese. Yesterday the super sense of smell kicked in. And HARD. While she was out getting a pedicure, I made some white trash nachos. (that's canned chicken, cheese and tortilla chips) She came home and smelled the chicken and flipped. She ended up dry-heaving in the powder room about three different times. She ran out of the house and called me from the car asking me to turn on the kitchen fan and to light scented candles around the house. We needed grocery shopping done anyway. When she came home she asked me to put away the meat while she hid upstairs. I complied. No biggie.

Before dinner Carey suggested we do it...gently. She felt bad for me because it had been awhile. I concurred. And naturally I obliged. But during the dirty deed, I noticed she kept turning her head away from mine. Like dodging kisses or something. I asked if it was my breath. Nope. Turns out my skin, in general, stunk to her. Apparently the entirety of my epidermis gave off the aroma of musk (positive!) and vanilla (negative..). A combination that repulsed her. Huh. I wasn't sure what to do about that. But she had an idea. Her solution was to keep me on top and wrap me up tight in the blankets all the way up to my neck while I gave her the slow and naughty. Basically like how they show it on TV. Pregnancy, pregnancy what joys I have yet to discover?

Bullseye

[November 5, 2009]

On one of these nights, October 20th or 21st or 22nd or 23rd, I impregnated Carey again.

Dr. Stupendous and Unsexy Sex

[September 28, 2009]

What. A fucking. Joke. That sums up our visit to the OBGYN this morning. Pardon my French, but there's no other words for it. A colossal waste of time. Actually, it's worse than just wasting our time, it's more like stealing time that can never be returned. Theft, if you will. Burglary. We'll each die an hour before we were supposed to. Before I get into that, I must back up and describe the crappy morning even before the bullshit doctor's appointment.

When I wake up, I'm grumpy. Toxic, even. This morning was no exception. A bad pattern we have in our marriage is Carey getting up before me entirely wide awake ready to attack the day with vim and vigor and often this includes a list of urgent tasks for me to do. Some times it feels like she's barking orders at me before I am even half way conscious. So the first words out of her mouth this morning are about how we need to somehow get a hold of my parents on their cruise boat to get a bank statement showing that the gift check they gave us for our house down payment has cleared. (We got an email in the middle of the night from our loan officer requesting this.) So of course I reacted like the little morning jerk-baby that I am. I defensively grumbled something about how we'll just have to wait until they return, no, I doubt they do online banking nor does Wendy have access to their account. All reasonable answers, but through a cranky-pants manner. And Carey even stopped talking to me reminding both of us that I'm just cranky and useless until I'm thoroughly awake. Which actually made me feel better so I continued to get ready for the day as per usual in a sullen state keeping to myself. Turned on the ricer, put on some clothes, brushed teeth etc. While continuing to make my lunch and dinner for the long work day, Carey suggested we leave at 8:15am. And this was the gist of the argument. I didn't feel it was necessary to leave so early because I had stuff to do to get ready for my day. She wanted to leave early, I didn't. That's the argument at its central core. You follow me? The appointment was set at 8:30am at Group Health Women's Center which is literally 1/2 a block away. I had stuff to do before we left because following the Drs appointment we had to go straight to the inspection of our new house to-be, then to work. Under normal circumstances this argument would amount to casual bickering easily forgotten when the next thing catches our attention. Rarely we'll be pissed at each other granting almost full silent treatment when the other one has to leave for work and the conflict is unresolved between us. Worst case scenario, that is. But this time was different. Carey was PISSED! She was raging mad at me. Yelling and calling me an asshole. (not her typical fighting words) She screamed that I owed her an apology and that I was insensitive to her needs, her body and so on. She blew like a volcano, man. Carey had totally lost her temper. Half awake, cranky as usual, I didn't get what was going on at first. I couldn't see why she was so up set about nothing. But really, she was nervous about the findings from the MRI. We had been waiting for two months for this so we could finally learn what our options are for making babies. And she flipped! After shrieking one more time that I had better apologize to her, despite the certainty that I had done nothing wrong, I sincerely tried to say I was sorry for not thinking of her and tried to explain I was just trying to get my stuff together before we started our day. She didn't accept my apology and yelled, "YOU WERE ONLY THINKING OF YOURSELF! YOU WEREN'T THINKING ABOUT ME AT ALL. YOU WERE ONLY THINKING ABOUT YOUR RICE!" Which now that I write it down, it's quite funny. She then stormed by me up the stairs. I said something snarky about how I tried. I apologized. It's all I could do. I guess she had decided she was going to go early to the Doctor's without me. I figured this out when she stormed out of the front door and slammed it behind her. I put on my hoody, locked the door behind me and chased her down. We walked in silence. Her fuming silence, me just irritated silence. No talking at all. No looking at each other. You know the drill. Even in the waiting room. Not a word. The nurse came and took her away first as is their protocol. At the women's center they always do this for the safety of the female patient. They get her alone and ask if she's in any kind of danger. Which in our case is amusing in that if there ever were a domestic violence call and the police came to our house and the officer had to arrest and take one of us away, my bet is it would be Carey. But with her crazy anger at me, I began to wonder what she was telling the nurse. Carey was clearly out of her mind ticked off at me. What if she made something up and they hauled me away? At least I could miss work for a day... The nurse finally came out and led me to the room. Carey was sitting up on the table with the sternest angry face she could make. The nurse left and Carey ripped into me. "You know, you call yourself a feminist, but you don't care at all about me or my body. You're sexist and being a chauvinist!" And this was as sad as it was hilarious. I immediately stood up and walked over to comfort her. She really was talking crazy. I could tell that she had brewed up that little dig to try and hurt me, but it was just too ridiculous and so far off base about what was going on that I could tell she was seriously upset. Worried about this whole Bicornuate Uterus thing fearing she would be infertile or lose more pregnancies. Those were some of the weakest fighting words I've ever heard come out of her mouth. And that worried me. You see, my girl is wicked smaht! Her verbal repartee is usually sharp and can be deadly. But this... this was sub par by most anyone's standards. An indication of a truly sad state of affairs.

We have been waiting for this for two months since the miscarriage. An MRI was scheduled and then an appointment set to visit the OBGYN to go over the results. That's why we were there.


[October 26, 2009]

Okay. I got a little sidetracked and wasn't able to finish that last entry in a timely manner. We bought a house and moved into it.

Basically, here's what happened: this highly regarded OBGYN, let's call her, oh, I don't know, Dr. Stupendous, didn't know how to read an MRI, the very reason we were meeting with her. She started off the appointment with these platitudes about how "normal" is relative (referring to a normal uterus) and "what is normal, really?" and "If you walked into a kindergarten class, which one would be the normal one?" Thank God she brought it to our level, otherwise we would have had no idea about what normal is...because we're retarded. To follow her stupid analogy to the end conclusion, go into a kindergarten class and the kids with only one head - those are the normal ones. Carey has an abnormal shaped uterus. Also, the Doctor's computer screen showed in red letters the results of the MRI - ABNORMAL UTERUS. Bold red letters. Good thing we don't know how to read. When she finally got to the MRI photos on her computer, she could barely navigate the findings. She definitely could find Carey's anus. She pointed that out on just about every image. The last one Carey beat her to the punch - "Yeah, and that's my butthole..." We get it Dr. Stupendous. You know how to find the sphincter on the computer screen. How about the uterus? The good doctor tried to pull up the old ultra sound images on her computer, but for some reason she just couldn't work that goll-dang computron! Gee willikers! Those things are tricky! And she really tried to cover her tracks. After fumbling around with the images she made up this line about how the MRI is good for finding out if all the other organs around the uterus were healthy. Guess what? They were! And we already knew that from the goddamned ultra sound that was taken a month before. Dr. Stupendous complained that there wasn't a front image from the MRI. What? How could there not be a front shot? It's 360 degrees. Then she recommended what she called an "old fashioned" exam called an HSG that would shoot barium into Carey's hoo-hoo while they X-ray it flowing out of her Fallopian tubes to the ovaries. This was what Carey asked her primary care physician to do even before the MRI, but she was told the MRI would be much better. Nice. Another procedure. Swell. Then our 30 minutes were up and that was that. She escorted us out of the room telling us how truly sorry she was for our situation. Needless to say, we were enraged. Livid was the word I used and the one Carey appropriated from me when she screamed at anybody and everybody at Group Health. The next day Dr. Stupendous called up Carey and they had a little talk. Not much came out of it except that the doctor was sorry and that Carey's expectations of being able to see her uterus (It's so small!) were unreasonable. Dr. Stupendous was so wrong. Wrong all over the place. Read on.

Carey had the HSG on the 15th. The bad news first. The HSG that Dr. Stupendous recommended didn't show squat. Surprise, surprise. The new radiologist, who fortunately was cool to Carey, explained that the HSG was good for determining the condition of the Fallopian tubes and ovaries, but not really the uterus. NOT THE UTERUS! (I can't even think of a long enough, angry enough, or dirty enough string of swear words to input here, so I'll just move on...) Another stupid waste of time. Stupid, stupid Doctor Stupid-ness. HOWEVER! The good news is that the radiologist offered to bring up Carey's MRI to go over it with her. Turns out the radiologist knew how to read an MRI and voila! There it was. A uterus shaped like a freaky Y heart. This was all Carey wanted. To see the severity of her bicornuate uterus. And it's severe. Carey demanded to get a second opinion from outside of GHC (which we'll be going to tomorrow) at a fertility clinic with a doctor who specializes in abnormal uteri. We've decided to drop Group Health and switch to Aetna next year.

In other news, we've had the keys to our new place for a week now. We checked the menstrual calendar we got going and Carey was supposed to be ovulating last week. So we did it 4 nights in a row and we'll see what happens. Night three was pretty hilarious, if you can appreciate how boring focused procreation is. We were exhausted from moving that day. Not so sexy. More procedural and mechanical then hot. It was on the excitement level of requesting salt during dinner. "Darling, could you pass me the salt?" "Of course, my love." Bam. Sperm deposited.

Annoyed Radiologists

[September 10, 2009]

So Carey had an MRI (that's Magnetic Resonance Imaging, for those of us who didn't already know) on 9/1. For a thorough gander at her hidden and abnormal lady parts. To see what the dealio is with the double uteri. She asked me to tag along for support, so I did. Fortunately I had the day off due to the forced unpaid vacation library furlough. Once we got to radiology (a creepy underground laboratory) we both had to fill out forms in order to be eligible for the MRI (Carey) or to just be in the room during the procedure (me). Apparently the magnetic field in the MRI room is a force to be reckoned with. You pretty much had to swear that you were in perfect health, well, at least physically. Psychologically speaking...I'll get to that in a minute. So we signed our lives away. Then the radiologist told us what could go with us into the room and what had to stay behind. Belt, zippered hoody, watch, jewelry and even credit/debit cards (because they could get demagnetized) all had to stay. Then the technician walked us into the room. Surrounding the big white plastic box that was the MRI was a room, stark white-white like something out of THX 1138, a fragment of a sterile future dystopia. I was offered a seat, a folding chair about 5 feet away from the sterile beast. Carey had to climb up on a gurney. The radiologist wrapped her in warm towels, then a rib-like rack and then strapped her all cocooned up to the gurney. Feet and chest all strapped in. Carey was told to not move her feet once inside the MRI machine(?). The technician gave us each a set of ear plugs because the scanning gets really loud. For Carey they also gave her headphones with KEXP piped in. Then they pushed the button and the gurney very slowly moved into the shallow cave in the center of the enormous machine. Seriously large. Like 20 x 20 x 20. Then as the radiologists sealed the door they told me it was a good thing I brought something to read because this was going to take awhile. Also, they cautioned if I needed to get close to the machine to take my glasses off. Magnetic field and all, remember? Carey minds well have been 50 miles away from me. She was so wrapped up tight. Restrained. Constrained. Trapped. I started to grow anxious. Like seriously anxious. Like panic-attach anxious. I tried to talk myself down rationalizing that I could be stuck in a room for 30 minutes no problem. But the noise was getting to me. And the sight of Carey was making me extremely claustrophobic. I began to feel the straps around my own body tying me down. Helpless. I had to do something. So I knocked on the control window for the radiologist to stop everything, unseal the door and let me ask them a quick question. I asked if once this thing started if I needed to leave would I be able to. They said no. Ok. Just checkin'. So I sat back down while they resealed the door and started up the MRI again. But I couldn't take it. I couldn't calm down. It was fight or flight and I had nothing to fight with or against. My heart was a mass of hot energy and my brain was being constricted to the point of madness. I knocked on the control window again for them to stop the machine, unseal the door and let me out again. Naturally they were annoyed. I asked if I could stand behind them and look through the control window. They said no. Defeated, I walked down the hall to the waiting room. Some big help I was. I started to imagine Carey freaking out (like I would), opening her eyes looking to me for support and finding a big fat empty chair. I feared she'd be really upset. 40 minutes later she entered the waiting room hair messy and eyes half open. I stood up bracing myself for a tongue-lashing. But then I noticed her hair was all disheveled. Her eyes were barely open and she had a dreamy look on her face. Carey slept through the whole thing! And the radiologists were able to talk to her through the headphones telling her right when I left the room. I was just relieved that she wasn't mad. Of course Carey fell asleep. That's so like her. If I, on the other hand, had to get an MRI, I would need heavy sedation. Add claustrophobia to the list.

Emotional Feelings

[August 13, 2009 (36 years old)]

Man, that looks old when I write it down. Thirty-six. There. That looks better. Words not numbers. Carey keeps checking in with me about my feelings. It's nice of her and probably necessary, but it's also kind of annoying. I had lunch with Chad and gave him the play by play. And I realized that I kind of just gave facts, mostly. Some commentary, opinion, but not much on my feeeeelings. Sunday I had phone conversations with all the Wagler contingencies. Wayne was first in the afternoon. Mom and dad then Wendy back to back around the 8-9 o'clock hours. Everyone was really compassionate. I confessed to Wayne (without meanint to) about how I really wanted this baby. I was surprised at how much I'd already grown attached to the idea of getting my own kid. Whenever someone talks about fatherhood, it makes me want to puke. Fatherhood. Sounds stupid. My brother did say he thought I'd be a good father. My own dad has said that before. It's not like I'm going to get a book on the subject. I don't really think in those terms. Like, "How would I be as a father?" Not my style. That's not how I mentally role, see. I think more about what I want to do. Like a lot of reading out loud to the child. Teach them some auto mechanics and how to hate professional sports. While Carey was still pregnant I read Dr. Doolittle at nights in bed to her and our embryo. Then half way through Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. My reasons were intellectual and to familiarize el bambino with my voice. I want a smart kid. And I don't want her to wear boring, dumb clothes.

For me, the loss began when Dr. O finally pronounced that there was no heartbeat. Seeing the expelled non-viable pregnancy, a floating mess in the toilet put the final nail in the coffin. At the library I've been slightly upset seeing little kids all alive walking around, eyes blinking holding their mom or dad's hand. That hurts a little, I suppose. Carey's parents are pretty intense about the whole thing. Which I understand being their lost shot at grandparenthood. Sam talked to me. Said he loved me. We got flowers from the Goldenbergs on Saturday. Funny. Both Carey and I said at different times unbeknownst to each other that the flowers were kind of macabre - a dark purple. Probably on purpose, no? Monday they sent us an oak tree to plant. Where we are supposed to put it, I don't know. The card was sad saying something about being in memory of our blueberry baby.

Black Weekend Part II

[August 11. 2009]

Before leaving Group Health to go home and have a miscarriage we had an uncomfortable interaction with a pharmacist. Just to add insult to injury, if you will. Salt in the cut. Lemon juice in the open wound.The RX order for vicodin for some reason didn't beat us to the pharmacy. The guy there couldn't find it. He finally did and asked Carey if she'd taken it before. No, she hadn't. So he had to give us the spiel because it's a narcotic. Makes you sleepy, don't drive any machinery, don't drink while on it blah, blah, blah. But then he looked at Carey and was unsure about the dosage. The bottle itself said take 1-2 every 4-6 hours. This pharmacist suggested maybe only one or half even. Then he asked her uncomfortable question number one. "How much do you weigh?" Now, I get why he asked it. I understand that if she weighted two-ten, then the drug would have less of an effect and a higher dosage would be necessary. But we weren't thinking clearly about why he asked. When not expecting a question like that, caught off guard, the socially responsible instinct is to answer and answer truthfully. Especially in a Dr.'s office/hospital/clinic/pharmacy, right? So she did. Based on her response he decided a 1/2 a pill would be just fine. But then he reconsidered again and asked uncomfortable question number two, "What are you taking this for?" Carey faltered and quietly answered, "For a miscarriage." "Oh." he replied. "Go ahead and take a whole one." As we walked away Carey muttered through teary eyes, "That was awkward." That insensitive fuck! So much for patient privacy. Anything else you wanna know, ass-face? Haunting family secrets? How about the intimate details of our sex lives? Stupid prick.

So Friday night, dark Friday, we stayed in and waited. Carey inserted three pills into herself, had some dinner, dropped a vicodin and we watched our DVD. Three hours later, nothing was happening. She couldn't feel any reactions from the drugs so she popped another vicodin and fell asleep on the couch. At about 11 I was ready to go to bed. So I woke her to join me. That's when the pain began. The next hour and a half was excruciating. Unbearable cramps followed by the evacuation of small crooked strings of blood. It felt like it would never end. She would be in the bed writhing around holding her stomach trying to find a comfortable position. (Or at least a less painful one.) Then she'd go back to the bathroom. She would sit and push and we'd wait for more to leave her body. Always tiny amounts were expunged not even close in comparison to the amount of pain. She was suffering greatly and there was nothing I could do but rub her back while kneeling on the noticeably dirty bath mat. She got to the point where she could only swear over and over and over again rocking on the bed, holding her stomach. The pain was so intense that she threw up on top of the floating blood and clots. A hot washcloth on her stomach seemed to help a little. I burnt my hands warming and rewarming the washcloth. Towards the end, she passed it, we were pretty sure. Pretty sure we saw it. Tiny bloody tissue with a curve, maybe a once forming vertebrae. I remember thinking in complete sentences like, "I can't handle this. I am not able to handle this," and "I don't ever want to do this again. Nothing is worth this." Carey cried on and off not only from the physical pain, but also the loss. She let out fathom deep sobs. Unimaginable sorrowful crying. This was misery. This was loss. This was death. She wanted this baby so bad. I couldn't believe it was happening to us... At midnight Carey called her mom Mary Kay (3am her time). Mary Kay suggested she do the breathing like she was in labor. After Carey hung up to go back to the bathroom she called us right back. I picked up and she added that I should breathe with her. Which I did even though I felt like a fool. By then the washcloth thing wasn't working much anymore. Carey insisted I call Dan to borrow his heating pad. I didn't want to, but I finally did. I texted him and Toby hoping they were still awake. Dan called from Toby's phone saying he'd bring the pad right over. He must have ran because it didn't take long. When he rang the doorbell, for a second I thought about throwing on a robe as I know I look ridiculous in my pajama suit (black long johns and a t shirt and sox). I ran down stairs to get the pad. I thanked him. He didn't let me go without a hug. I don't remember what he said, but it was nice. I brought the pad upstairs, plugged it in and Carey and I commenced on another suggestion from Mary Kay, marching around doing the stupid breathing thing. It really did help some. Also, by 12:30 we believed the remainder of it had been evacuated. Carey fell asleep with the hot pad wrapped around her stomach. I fell asleep and had a stupid Hallmark card dream.

It was quite unlike the dream Carey had Thursday night before we knew for sure. In her dream, she pulled out a full fetus from herself and showed it to me. Prophetic, as it turns out and completely free of mystery. My dream, there was something, a bird/book amalgam flying in place in front of me. The flapping wings outspread from the binding. After a moment it turned to reveal it was two dimensional only showing a black horizontal line in the sky. Then from the line a giant burst of fluttering birds, an upward V of rising doves. In the dream, the awe was so intense that I fell to my knees. (Wow, that sounds cheesy. The dream felt beautiful while I was in it, but explaining in words is all kinds of embarrassing.) The flock flew straight up into the sky into a rough square hole in the clouds exposing bare sky where bright streams of sunlight fell. It sounds like bad writing. Like something from the Lifetime network. I'm disappointed that this is the "meaningful" dream that my mind up with. Such obvious symbolism. Stupid brain.

Saturday morning I woke up with extreme stomach pain and nausea. I reasoned that my food surely had digested by that point. So what was going on? My last meal was like 10 hours previous. I scanned my memory for the list of ingredients to make sure there was no gluten. It hurt really bad. Then it got worse. I ran to the bathroom and puked out my gut fluids. Nothing but bile. My throat stung from the toxic mess. My stomach started a wave of rising and settling pain. I contemplated not going to work trying to fall back asleep. Carey suggested I go to get my mind off of things. Dan already promised to come over to be with her while I worked. Oh, and I also had the rhea. Acid blasts. We walked over to Safeway to get ginger ale for my upset stomach and orange juice for Carey. I had two bottles of cold ginger ale in my arms because they were too cold for my hands (which if you'll remember went through the heat wringer the night before with the hot washcloth action). I must have looked like I was hurtin' for the needle stumbling around like that. I dropped a bottle and it shattered spilling ginger ale everywhere on the floor in the produce section. The cute chick employee just gave me the look like "whatever" after I apologized. I was a wreck, but I still drove to work. One block from the house I actually turned the car around because my stomach hurt so bad, but I doubled back and tried to tough it out. I made it an hour and a half at work before I puked up my banana and ginger ale in the staff only bathroom. I felt better for a few seconds right after I hurled. But that did it. I called my boss at the Magnolia branch and explained that I just launched my breakfast and I needed to go home. He sounded a little perturbed, but relented anyway. I told the librarian on duty and took off in the car. When I got home I checked on Carey reclining on the living room couch and then went to the bedroom hoping to get some sleep. No luck. I was in bed for a couple of hours, but couldn't sleep. Dan had come over, I heard. Carey came up and encouraged me to come down and talk it out. I felt nasty with a cramped stomach though, and stayed put. I didn't want to see anyone anyway. A little while later Dan brought up a dry piece of gluten-free toast. I ate it slowly counting how many times I chewed each bite. That way, the food would be mashed up, mostly dissolved before it hit my weakling stomach. I decided 50 chews would be good, but I made it to around 100 times on several bites. I finally came down stairs. Jennifer was there too. And we hung out. Becky showed up a little later. We just talked in our living room. I slumped in one of our chairs occasionally laughing at whatever funny comment my friends made. It momentarily relieved the pain. Stupid pain.

Carey came to the conclusion that my sickness was my body's reaction to the horror of what I had witnessed the night before. Made me think of in the movies when after someone witnesses a murder or kills someone for the first time or finds a dead body they throw up. Carey told our friends and our families that I was strong during the ordeal. I am not strong. I may have acted strong. But my body is weak. I cannot cry. I got teary eyed a few times, but I am not really able to completely let go of control. So I smothered the hurt and stuffed it down in my digestive system until it couldn't handle it anymore and burst out of both ends of my body. I didn't have a fever. There's really no other explanation. I admitted to Carey that I felt guilty for being sick when I should have been taking care of her. She even got me some Pepto Bismol and Tums. They didn't help, but it was a nice gesture. I could barely down water. Anything entering my stomach immediately turned to hurt. Even the stupid Pepto gave me heartburn. The whole day my stomach writhed. Her pain had subsided into a constant dull cramp. The vicodin sort of helped her. At one point when all our friends were over, Carey looked pail. In pain. She realized her discomfort, took another pill, and sunk back into the couch.