I crawled into bed last Sunday night, after Addie's 5th birthday extravaganza at Chuck E. Cheese's, and am just now crawling out. We're still not totally sure what happened to me. As best as the doctors can explain, my uterus kind of exploded in some sort of never-before-seen infection. Or an evil little gnome of a cyst on my right ovary set off its own little suicide bomb. Or something else entirely. Maybe unrelated to Chuck E. Cheese, maybe not.
All I know is this: I was sick, mommy, was I sick. And I feel better today, got a little work done, but I'm still not all better. And the doctors still don't know what the hell is up. Also, all of those classic women's studies/anthropology texts about dirt and disease and women menstruating? Still all very true. Western medicine may be kind to you and your ovaries, but not if they're dropping egg. They want nothing to do with you in those cases.
Some of you might say western medicine never is kind to you and your ovaries. You may be right.
Anyway, we're headed into Easter weekend, so I crawl out of bed, away from wrapping birthday presents and toward dye-ing eggs. We find out next week if Eric gets laid off. I also turn thirty-four. And I have to revise an article YET AGAIN for the same publication, and have two more publications due on May 1. I feel like I'd rather saw off my own arm than work right now, but that's what we got. Work and birthdays and Easter and being laid off work. And a suicide-bombing cyst mission. Plus a million other little blessings, I know, I know. I'm counting them, too. What else can you do?
What a crazy-ass week, yo.
All I know is this: I was sick, mommy, was I sick. And I feel better today, got a little work done, but I'm still not all better. And the doctors still don't know what the hell is up. Also, all of those classic women's studies/anthropology texts about dirt and disease and women menstruating? Still all very true. Western medicine may be kind to you and your ovaries, but not if they're dropping egg. They want nothing to do with you in those cases.
Some of you might say western medicine never is kind to you and your ovaries. You may be right.
Anyway, we're headed into Easter weekend, so I crawl out of bed, away from wrapping birthday presents and toward dye-ing eggs. We find out next week if Eric gets laid off. I also turn thirty-four. And I have to revise an article YET AGAIN for the same publication, and have two more publications due on May 1. I feel like I'd rather saw off my own arm than work right now, but that's what we got. Work and birthdays and Easter and being laid off work. And a suicide-bombing cyst mission. Plus a million other little blessings, I know, I know. I'm counting them, too. What else can you do?
What a crazy-ass week, yo.
The pizza at our Chuck E. Cheese is pretty great. I shipped pizza for twelve years, therefore I ought to know. I'm certain a number of the Chuck E. Cheese restaurants aren't good as a result of they are a chain. Most chain restaurants are for example this, some sensible, some bad
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