Sorry for the radio silence, but I've been sick. In fact, I spent much of Wednesday in our local emergency department, being poked and prodded and given an I.V. in one of the smallest rooms I've ever been in.
At one point, there was the guy from the lab, taking blood samples, the nurse, setting up the I.V., Alan, offering support, and me, in a johnny shirt and my boots (I was on my way to the bathroom when the lab guy showed up). Crowded? We just needed Madame DuMont and a duck and we'd've had a Marx brothers movie.
It took awhile for the lab results to come back, so I had a snooze to make up for a night spent pacing and squeaking, alternated with curling up in the fetal position and squeaking some more.
Finally, the young doctor entered the room to tell me that, well... it could be a kidney stone. Or maybe a gallstone. Possibly some flu-like infection. But I'm definitely not pregnant.
He seemed really pleased to be able to give me that last piece of information. And just a little hurt when I burst into raucous laughter and nearly fell off the bed.
But after a lifetime of abysmal infertility, twenty years on the Pill, and introductory greetings from Mr. Menopause, plus the addition of a whole lotta painkillers, it seemed pretty funny.
Hey, you give me the fun drugs, you take the consequences.