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Foul discharge

The last week has been grim.

After the D&C Monday night, I slept hard with an assist from my faithful henchpill, Tylenol with codeine. I took it easy the next day, hunkering down in a soft nightgown with a couple of shockingly crappy novels. I was bleeding, but not in any alarming amount, and while I felt sore all over it didn't seem unwarranted.

On Wednesday and Thursday I couldn't seem to do anything. Even unloading the dishwasher was a chore too daunting to face. I moped around the house looking tragic while Paul quietly and efficiently kept us fed and clothed.

Friday I started hurting. It felt like a bad period of mine: the bloating, the intestinal mutiny, the widespread abdominal inflammation that made me curl up in bed like a comma. And, hey, throw in some unusually persistent lower back pain just for kicks. Paul pestered me so skillfully that I finally phoned the doctor on call, who basically told me to suck it up, take more drugs, and ignore it unless I had a fever or "foul discharge." Neither of the above, so I simply continued my systematic abuse of narcotics.

I felt physically lousy, but emotionally I thought I was holding my own. Emotionally, I'd pretty much been okay — surprisingly, suspiciously okay. That came to a screeching halt on Sunday. I don't know if it was the chronic discomfort that finally wore me down or the hormone crash I'd been expecting, but since then I've been in an implacably evil mood. In fact, it's fair to say that pretty much every word that's come out of my mouth has been angry, sharp, and bitter.

I'm not a nice person to live with right now. Mostly I've managed to spare Paul the worst of my vitriol, mostly, though there was an unpleasant and uncharacteristic contretemps today over a missing tortilla. Although I try not to take it out on Paul, who's been nothing but kind, patient, and helpful, I'm furious at the world and the anger just keeps oozing out, a foul discharge in its own right.