I’m home sick today. I left work early yesterday because I was nauseous, and today just generally feel like crap. Headache, fever, upset stomach. Not bad enough to sleep, not good enough to get off the couch. It might be due to my combo pregnancy/brain tumor.
A week ago I bought the first season of Grey’s Anatomy. I managed to limit myself to three a night. They went so fast! Just as I was getting twitchy Season Two arrived. There are lots more episodes – 27, I think, which means one can be less judicious. Or more compulsive.
I thought maybe I had the flu, but then stopped to analyze my symptoms. I have this headache; I had one last week. It’s probably a brain tumor. You can get one at any moment, even without symptoms. People arrive at Seattle Grace with a sprained ankle or a gunshot wound, and it turns out they have a brain tumor or some kind of bleeding in their skull that requires an emergency operation. You never know.
And starting yesterday, out of the blue, nausea. I must be pregnant. I count back to my last period. I can’t be pregnant. I might be. I probably am. Christina thought she had the flu. It’s more likely pregnancy than the stomach virus that’s been going around the office, felling colleagues as fast as old forest trees under the Bush administration. I mean, everyone else at Seattle Grace had the flu.
So here I am, on the couch, obsessing. Would I have the baby? I’d have the baby, at this point. Can you take Advil if you’re pregnant? Probably not. Can I have coffee? I need some. I have both.
I’m going to have to choose, I realize – treatment for cancer, or keeping the baby. I think at some point I want to have a child, and I’m in my 30s. I should think of the baby. However, I can’t imagine having a dog by myself, much less a kid. And the thought of staying home with a screaming kid while friends are out having fun makes my uterus cringe. I have a potentially long and interesting life ahead of me. I’m going to have to go with the cancer treatment. Absolutely.
Then, I wonder, do all surgeons think about and have that much sex? Can I trust these people to operate on me? Maybe more importantly, should I stop dating lawyers and try dating surgeons? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll choose the hottest single male surgeon for the operation. If I survive, this could be a good for my social life. Definitely.