Scene: toilet cubicle, pub. I'm rummaging in my handbag.
Me (to body) : So what was that about, all that nausea?
Body: (shrugs shoulders in a sulky way)
Me: I mean, I still feel green and spewy. Should I be seeing a gastroenterologist?
Body: Maybe it's in your head.
Me: Oh - in *my* head? Physical symptoms?
Body: (shrugs again) Even after a negative test result you wouldn't believe it.
Me: I took it 4 days early, so it was only 74% accurate.
Body: I thought testing early was supposed to shortcut all this drama.
Me : No, I'm afraid not. Last time I trust that theory. Or you and your "symptoms".
Body: (dissolves into a weeping hormonal mess)
Me: You really wanted that test to be wrong didn't you?
Me: Yeah, me too. I'm sorry I called you a weepy hormonal mess.
Body: I'm sorry I implied you were delusional.
Me: (glares for a second) Hmph. Speaking of which, I should probably stop talking to you as though you had a separate consciousness.
Body: Oh yes. But remember, you promised blue cheese and oysters if this happened?
Me: Yes yes. Enjoy it while you can, we're on again in November.
(I finally find something small and white - not edelweise - in the side inside pocket of my handbag.)
Yep, it's day one again, and even though it is the first month we've tried since losing Z, it still feels like groundhog's day. And as philosophical as I can be in my head about percentages and buying our lottery ticket, flipping our coin and whatever stupid metaphor you want to use, I'm still crushed because I'm a dirty hope addict, and I really did think something miraculous might happen. Bugger.
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