Back from a fundraiser for "Adopt a Child for Christmas". There's a little Christmas Tree farm not far from here (yes, there are Christmas type trees that will grow in Florida) all set up with pony cart rides and kettle corn and a haywagon pulled by a tractor, a bonfire to roast hot dogs -- quite nice. There was a tiny petting zoo area with another tiny Shetland pony, two goats (Nubian, I think, and one about to give birth any minute), two bunnies, a very pregnant cow, some peafowl, some chicks, and a pair of very opinionated geese. There were also several "Therapy dogs" there doing the public relations thing. Most were 50 pounds or more -- a flatcoated Retriever, a Golden Retriever with a heavy long coat, a black German Shepard, a Doberman, a couple of large mutts -- and one little royal Yorkie. Yorkies are the tough guys of the pocketdog world. This one, complete with a little organza bow holding her hair from her eyes, trotted amongst the big dogs without the slightest concern, quite certain she could whip any ass that got in her way. She strolled up to me, demanding to be pet, and then flopping onto the dirt to roll over so I could pet her belly. She might have weighed 4 pounds, including the little green vest she wore that proclaimed her a Therapy dog and announced her name to be Alice.
There's something sort of quaint and special about small town events like this. We've lived here for a number of years, but only now does it feel like we are becoming part of the community. I could examine this more closely, I think, and review all my thoughts on belonging or not belonging, but....not now.
Right now I'm thinking of sending my husband out for some sort of comfort food. (Warning -- gory details that might be upsetting to the faint of heart or men forthcoming). Since the miscarriage, my menstrual cycle has been thrown completely out of whack. Now, I've never been exactly a huge fan of my period -- Oh Yippee, a week of bloating, cramping, bitching, and bleeding! -- but I've been somewhat molified that for most of my life (and I mean that exactly) my period has shown up on time and with a minimum of fuss and bother. Since I slammed face first into puberty before I left the 6th grade, that's been 28 years of dealing.
But the miscarriage, starting as it did with actually being pregnant, has kicked all those years of practice to the curb. I've been bleeding steadily, in varying amounts, since the first of freaking August. Let me spell it out. I've been ON MY PERIOD FOR 12 WEEKS NOW. Or something like that. Once in late September, I had what felt sort of like the normal warning signs of my period -- some irritability, some cramps, the sensation my ass was about to hit both sides of the doorframe -- but, since I'm bleeding anyway, there was no really definative change. I didn't get back in line with the moon in October. But, Today, the First of November...I'm cramping in a noticeably uncomfortable way. Not as bad as when I was 14, but annoying enough. So now, I'm in "Oh, let's see what new joy the Hormone Fairy will Bring Me" mode. Feh.
It Hurts. Like the bones in my hips have fueded and refuse to be in the same body together. It's not the stomach, not the intestines, not the kidneys, but some little hollow spaces inside the curve of my pelvis that pulses and aches. There are nerve-lined balloons nestled in there, both filled tightly with some dense liquid so that any movement creates a sloshing feeling that presses down and out. It Hurts.
I've said it before and I'll go over it again. If I manage to get pregnant and I go into labor. there will be drugs. There will be drugs for me, for my husband, for the nurses, and for the people in the hallway. We can pull people from the street outside to see if they want any. Not the doctor, though. The doctor can have her drugs afterwards.