Practice Makes Perfect

1-22-2009

I curl over the toilet seat for the third time in as many hours. 4:30 a.m. I am supposed to be sleeping. It is Mr. Crud’s birthday. We are supposed to be celebrating with meals at our favorite restaurants, martinis (for me), gin and tonics (for him), and all around good cheer. Instead I am puking my guts out and cursing shellfish.

I am dying.

I better lose some fucking weight if I don’t die.

I’m glad I’m not pregnant for this barf-storm.

I wonder if breastfeeding women must stop if they come down with the flu or, as in my case, food poisoning. Can the toxins be transmitted to the infant via breastmilk? I have my next random question for my doctor when I hear back from her.

Mr. Crud and I have decided to ditch the genetic tests for now and go with the ones recommended by Dr. Awesome: thyroid, thrombosis, and the saline sonogram. The sonogram will be a more detailed look at my uterus, a uterus-scape in fact, to see if I have any stray membranes that might have suckered an egg into attaching to it although it doesn’t have adequate blood flow. I look forward to regaling my visiting in-laws with tales of my uterus. I am the dark artist daughter-in-law. Also the potty-mouthed daughter-in-law as evidenced by my mother-in-law’s reluctance to speak of the copy of my zine I once gave her. I have a rep to uphold.

My plan to get blood drawn the next workday hits a snag thanks to the revenge of the paella that Mr. Crud and I are suffering. No matter. Throwing up the entirety of my being hasn’t left me feeling very sexy. Or in the mood to do something that will make me nauseous 24-7. We are recovering from our bout with food poisoning but still wary of food. I call Mr. Crud to make dinner plans.

“Let’s play it by ear. Like when you were pregnant,” he says.

“Guess we should start practicing.”

The post-food poisoning nausea is different from pregnancy nausea. When I was pregnant I felt like my gag reflex was on high alert. The slightest whiff of burnt beef from Chipotle sent me reeling. My current nausea flavor is more subtle, more of a burning in the gut.

My personal night of living vomit had me wondering if maybe, maybe, I could be pregnant, if this was a sign of things to come. (Dehydration has been known to play games with ones sanity.) Yoga buddy Jan mentioned that her current pregnancy felt different than the miscarried ones. Maybe that period that I got a few days ago was a hoax. That uterus of mine is tricky. She likes to prank.

When Mr. Crud came down with my symptoms, I knew for sure that this was all the fault of some rogue microorganism and not a miracle spermatozoa. I’m waiting for a more complete recovery before the hike down to the Center for Sadness and Disappointment for my blood draw. Mr. Crud is coming with me. At least our return trip won’t involve any horrible news. Yet.