This morning I
went for my second beta and the anxiety was, in a word, catastrophic. C was again working a 30 hour shift in the ICU so
I was on my own for the last 24 hours, trying desperately to distract myself
and legitimately contemplating whether I could request 24 hours of anesthesia
or some other powerful sedative. Hey doc,
just wake me when you get the bloodwork back. Seriously[1].
Which is why,
after my early morning blood letting, sweaty, panicked and flustered, I drove around
aimlessly for a while – there is literally nothing open at 8:45 am on a Sunday,
it turns out – before arriving at the grocery store where I proceeded to gaze
longingly at the gaggle of toddlers and infants and baby Bjorns that apparently
proliferate grocery stores early in the morning walk as slowly as possible
through every single aisle pausing to intently consider whether 11 dollar
amaranth flour was something I should be incorporating into my diet.
And the grocery
store – the check out line to be specific, being asked if I wanted “cash back”–
is where I found myself when I got THE CALL. Although I’m certain I blacked out, I seem to have emerged from the
store having paid and with groceries in hand, and only six or seven impulse
buys[2].
