“I’m going to the gym,” I lie – sort of – to Sly and Doris.
I am going to the gym, but I am also going to the doctor for the blood test to
confirm it I am indeed having a miscarriage. “And I have a few errands to run
after class.”
Not that it is the obligation of the host to entertain the
guest. When I visit people, it’s to spend time with them, even if it’s just
helping fold laundry or making supper. I will wash your toddler’s vomit-soaked
sheets and make up the bed with clean sheets when I visit you, people. I will
even do the same thing again when said toddler vomits for the second time.
(And, by the way, the only other time in her life. That toddler is now 23 and
has not thrown up since.) I don’t expect people to drop everything to attend to
my whims.
See what a superior person I am? I want you on Team Goldie.
The guest should adjust to the life of the host, not the
other way around. I want to spend time with my friends doing whatever it is
that they do. If that is going to the grocery store or cleaning out the garage,[1]
that’s fine with me. I just like to be with my friends.
The phlebotomist takes more blood. I still don’t pass out. I
have enough adrenaline in my system from the stress of Sly and Doris that my
body realizes that passing out would not be helpful. Thank you, body.
I wait in the waiting room with my book – I never go
anywhere without a book – and my phlebotomist-supplied apple juice while I wait
for the results.
Results: It is official. This is a real miscarriage.
[1] Helping
a friend clean her garage = Good. Cleaning Sly and Doris’ garage = Bad. Yes, we
have already established that I Am a Bitch.
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