Getting Ready for Battle

Cleveland Clinic on Monday. Taking off Sunday night (crikey, later tonight???) to get down there on time, since hubby-man never follows the directions I give him (even if they are from MapQuest, which he requested). He is such a dingleberry sometimes. I admit to being a wee bit nervous but hopeful that I will finally get some answers about what this shit is that has been plaguing me for TEN FRIGGING MONTHS and getting worse by the day. I hear tell this doctor actually LISTENS to her patients (if so, then she is one of only four doctors on the planet who do so) and works the problem until she finds an answer. I consider myself an expert on doctors' bedside manner, having seen it from both sides (as a patient and as an employee), so we will reserve judgment for our own eyes.

That is all I really want: An answer. Even if that is "I am sorry, but you have {XXXX} and there is no cure, you are going to be miserable to the end of your days, and those days are numbered," I would much rather hear that than "I don't know" and/or "It's all in your head, you need to see a psychiatrist." (Fuck your psychiatrist, lady, which you probably already have and that is why you are sending all your patients to him.... but anyhow). It does not bother me to hear "I don't know," as long as it is accompanied with "But I will find the answer" (which I almost never hear). I mean, really, why the hell else am I paying (between my insurance payment and co-pays and deductibles) $200+ a pop for an office consultation? Surely not for a blowjob and a lollipop.

I am gonna beat this, one way or the other. I WILL WIN, BECAUSE I SAID SO AND I AM THE BOSS SO WHAT I SAY GOES. I have people who count on me every day for not only a means of support but mommy love, and I intend to stick around to give out as much of that as I can. My uterus is screaming incessantly "Fill me up, bitch!" but I really need to take care of this other thing first. It is really a pain when you cannot even enjoy yelling at your husband because you are unable to pick your arms up to flail them wildly at him, let alone enjoy holding, snuggling, feeding, and changing a new baby who smells so good and tastes so yummy when you kiss their tiny little heads.

Yes, I look forward to ALL of it: Gaining another 4000 pounds (someday my ass will be as large as my mouth), puking and puking until I can't puke no more and then puking some more anyhow, ankles as thick as most people's waists, stretch marks you could fill with water and drive a yacht through, watermelon boobs, hemorrhoids the size of Texas, and even labor and delivery but ESPECIALLY reveling in that miracle that is a tiny, perfect little person, with every atom in your body, watching them grow and learn (and then wondering where the hell your sweet baby went when they turn 12 and start mouthing off but you really love that, too, even if you won't admit it). Next time, though, I will not be making the mistake of going to the hospital to deliver. Alas. . . That's a story for another day. You'll like it, though (my obstetrician can finally chuckle about it, 2 years after the fact).