Last night Charlie woke up at 3:30, offensively chipper and energetic, and would not go back to sleep. "Charlie," I told him, in the most reasonable tone I could muster, which is to say I did not swear but wanted to, "it's still nighttime. Time to be asleep."
"No, Mama," he said in an aggrieved tone, "it's day."
"Look out the window," I said, refusing to open my own eyes, trying to pretend I still had some hope of going back to sleep, "and tell me what you see."
He considered the darkness. Night, I expected to hear. "Black day," he decided at last.
It wasn't exactly a black day; more of a blurry gray one. He did eventually go back to sleep at 5:30 for another two hours. But his ill-timed wakeup fucked me for the day. I am so tired I feel like I'm floating, so I can offer you only the prosaic news that my beta was a solid 170; that in the past 12 hours I have initiated or fielded at least a dozen phone calls to three different doctors, each of whom has offered some version of, "I can't believe your other doctor did that"; and that I will be reluctantly blowing off both my first appointment with my maternal/fetal medicine doctor and my first scheduled ultrasound to go to Louisiana, where my grandfather won't live much longer.
Crazy days, intense, just fraught, packed too tightly with every kind of emotion. (I can't even name what I felt when Charlie, who'd heard us say my grandfather was in the hospital, solicitously asked, "Did he eat something poisonous?") The good news is good, the bad news is rotten, and each comes so fast and hard on the heels of the other that I don't think the sick-making blur is just a product of my sleepy mind.