I have heard from readers that they await a new post with bated breath. Me too–though the reason my breath is bated is mostly to prevent an unstoppable deluge of vomit from marring my computer screen and sticking up the keyboard. How will I ever be able to blog then??
It would be an understatement–and a disservice to my own fortitude, and the fortitude of those who have put up with me–to merely say that I have been feeling off for the past several weeks. Why must we hedge? Let’s not! Let’s be frank! The Newcomer is making me feel like crap. I find it particularly offensive that this Newcomer-provoked sickness is further exacerbating my general will to live, which I enact most dramatically through my morning wake up ritual, as I turn over and over and over in my covers, imagining that, by simply ignoring it, time does not toil on, and, having decided to blatantly ignore time and its toiling, I am able to entertain the delusion that the action of me tossing about in my bed, aggressively resetting and resettling in an attempt to go on with sleep, somehow eradicates the need, by sheer power of delay, to, upon rising—
—projectile vomit into the toilet. Because that is always what happens, whether I have something in my stomach or not. No matter how long I wait to get up. No matter how I sequence the events of my morning. No matter. It has become part of the routine, every bit of it has, ever mouthful of acid and mucus that forces its way up from stomach to toilet to sight line, a self-renewing act because what is more vomit-inducing than looking at a toilet bowl full of bile?
I try to throw up before I put my contacts in, since glasses allow me near-legal blindness with minimal effort.
I should not be as eager to go to bed as I am, as doing so necessarily resets the clock–and my body’s belief that it might be able to justify another go-round with the toilet. Without this resetting, though, there would be no means of moving forward, of hoping this phase has passed. Yet, fear and optimism are often mates, one grasping the hand–or holding back the hair–of the other. It is difficult to summon the courage: I will toss and turn when the alarm goes off tomorrow.
Second trimester–probable salvation?–is a couple weeks away. How’s your breath-bating till then?