E has her 23 week check-up with the OB tomorrow. More than halfway through her pregnancy, her anxiety has only marginally improved. To give you an idea of her mindset, know that she lay, facedown, on the floor of the Jeep dealership bathroom last weekend in order to feel the baby move.
She prepares for the baby in fits and starts. One day she'll demand a trip to Target for baby clothes hangers, the next day I find her teary-eyed on the couch amongst empty glasses of strawberry milk, claiming "The Baby Is Dead."
As an aside, can you imagine my blood pressure levels in these moments? Arriving home from work at 11:30 to find my pregnant wife tear-streaked and moaning? I try to remain calm while gently interrogating her:
Why, baby, why do you think she's dead?
I haven't felt her in hours!
When was the last time you got up and moved?
(Sheepish) 4 hours ago.
Okay, well, let's go walk outside in the fresh air and maybe she'll wake up.
And, of course, we're not halfway out the door when E's face lights up as she exclaims, There she is!
But the time that elapses between the tiny rolls and kicks she feels is enough to spiral E into fierce anxiety and depression. The cyst on Lentil's brain may as well be a cyst on E's brain, worming into her conscience and silently destroying her experience of this pregnancy.
It's cyclical, of course. Her paranoia peaks the few days prior to her OB appointment. Hopefully her fears will be put to bed tomorrow, if not until June, then at least until the next appointment.
In more uplifting news, I've recently discovered the indescribable joy of learning the search terms that bring people to this website. A few of my favorites:
satan guitar fuckers,
boy in a dress,
hairy monster cyst,
and, my personal favorite, holy cunts.
No wonder I don't have more commenters.