Today, I’m going to tell myself that it’s okay that I’ve barely stayed somewhere between bursting into tears and raging against my husband for no good reason… (but thank you, dear husband, for loving me enough to put together our new dining table despite my oh–so–wonderful little mood swings!) I’m also going to excuse myself for not getting enough sleep last night (because I just had to listen to my old Celine Dion CD and drool over pictures of pies on Pinterest instead) and for devouring the remainder of the cheesecake left over from yesterday’s dinner with friends (don’t judge me). Today is the last day of the pity party that I have “enjoyed” for the last week.
Because tomorrow is my first appointment to talk to a doctor. I’ll actually be taking action. Not just pouring over WebMD and stifling panic attacks at every worst case scenario in the world. Not just devoting more time to the countless blogs and forum posts that I have been stalking shamelessly for that last couple years. Not just driving myself insane with my own theories, notes, and list of possible outcomes, Tomorrow is the day it all becomes terrifyingly real. And personal.
And it’s not even that there’s anything scary scheduled. I mean, sure, knowing that I’ll have to prop my feet up in the stirrups tomorrow doesn’t help the situation any, but still… I’m assuming there won’t be anything more than the standard pokes and prods. This time, anyway.
I’m also anxious to meet my doctor here on post, and I’m amusing myself by imagining that our conversation is going to go something like this:
Doc: When was your last period?
Me: I don’t remember.
Doc: You… don’t remember?
Me: No. They happen so rarely, I just forget…
Doc: Ok then. How long did it last?
Me: I don’t remember…
Me: I lost count somewhere around day 90…
Yeah, I know…
At least I’ll be one step closer to getting some answers. Wish me luck!