GLORIOSKI !!

For some unknown reason I find myself walking faster. I wake daily at at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m. Knowing it is useless to lie there, try to fall asleep again, I sit on the side of my bed, bend over to put my feet in my warm, cozy slippers. The room spins. A little voice I don’t recognize tells me to sit still. The room will stop moving in a minute.

The advice sounds logical so I do it. Sitting up slowly my senses are restored. The dizziness is gone. My soft lavender robe should be at the foot of my bed so I can find it easily in the dark, but isn’t. What the devil! Where is it?! I take quick, mincing steps searching for it and bango, I hit my ankle hard on the edge of the bed. My robe is on the floor on Mike’s side of the room. I pick it up and notice blood on my nightgown. It swims down my leg from the open gash I just made. In somewhat of a panic, I grab the robe and limp to the bathroom. Peroxide? Large Band Aid? Pressure? I’m sore but ok. My robe is not ok and will get to the cleaner when his shop opens–if I can walk without crutches.

Hell’s bells, I left my bifocals upstairs and go up to get them. Without thinking, I slip them on and see more clearly. There is little for me to do besides fix my breakfast and watch Lou Dobb’s re-play of yesterday’s commentary. At the top of the stairs, the dizziness strikes again. The same little voice tells me to sit still for a minute, hold tightly to the rail and go down. Putting my head in my hands increases the dizziness. I let go, sit up straight and focus my eyes , take hold of the railing and touch the floor safely to a point. I walk smack into the kitchen wall with a lot of force, shielding my eyes at the last second. My nose is not broken. My lungs still work. No sense denying it to myself. I am scared.

The street is still dark, has hours to go before sunrise. Think, think–what should I do? The helpful little voice is mute. Nobody is up as early as I am. I’ll wait. 911? Ridiculous! Go back upstairs, get an Ambien, try to sleep until Dr. Pierson’s office opens? Dumb! I might not wake up, ever. Drive myself to emergency? Another dumb idea!

The little voice tickles me. ‘Calm down, fix your breakfast, put the coffee pot on to brew, drink a large glass of OJ, scramble three eggs and throw in some cheese, toast a muffin and put raspberry preserves on it before it gets cold.’ Then go watch Lou Dobbs re-broadcast of last nite’s commentary.’ Hey, Fairy, you give good advice. Thanks.’

I obey without incident. My sleeve does not catch fire, no plate mysteriously falls on the floor, my banged up ankle doesn’t hurt any more and the bleeding has stopped. My tray and I sit down in the den and small talk the doofuses who email Lou Dobbs their stupid liberal thoughts.

Clunk, the newsboy has again hit the front door smack in the middle. I retrieve it, give the headlines a quick glance. It is all yesterday’s news. Today, almost for sure, I am canceling the Delray Daily and will get the news from my puter and t.v. It was a lousy paper even when it was in its hey day.

Before I take my tray to the kitchen I check the weather without the longitudes and high pressure systems. I open my door, see the sun shining, the sky blue, the temperature about 75 and I get on with the day. Shutting the door I notice orange and gold streaks of sunshine on the tile. Will I see that in the weather section of the Delray Daily? No, I will definitely cancel that paper today.

Everything is in order except my body. My internist of 25 years is too busy to see me today so I take second best, Dr. Martha Jonas, an associate. She too is scared and orders an immediate Cat Scan. Nothing there to worry about. My pressure is a little low but I know that is because I am nervous waiting for a simple answer. There are tests that have tests and I stay with Dr. Jonas all day. Two days more I wait and get a call, ‘Dr. Jonas would like to see you at 11 today. Don’t worry. Can you make it?’ ‘Unless hell freezes over, I’ll be there.’

I’m there at 10:30 in case she can take me earlier. She doesn’t. She smiles and says, ‘No tumors, no cancer, You are about four months pregnant!’ I literally scream at the top of my lungs. Waiting patients must believe I had a leg amputated without anesthetic. ‘My god, are you sure? That can’t be right. I’m almost 45. I thought my drooping belly was gas or normal aging. I thought I was in menopause. Are you sure?’ ‘Dr. Iman has confirmed it. Do you want to see your little boy’s picture?’

Tears rise. I vomit. I’m up a creek. I’m going to have a baby I don’t want. Was it my baby’s tiny voice that told me to hold the railing? It had to be. He was protecting us both. I need time to digest this news. I need to visit Mike. He leaves re-hab tomorrow. Oh, lordy, how can I spring this on him? We will have to re-do the spare room, make drastic changes in our supposed easy years. Our darling daughter is going to have a brother. She’ll be delighted, will help a lot. And most of all, we will have a son!

Mike glows with excitement, excitement I want to believe is honest. We do have many trepidations, concerns, but when we touch our special child’s tiny fingers in less than five months he will be ready for us and we will be ready for him!