Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Thursday
Jun262008

Uncle Dave

Serge told his brother Dave he's going to be an uncle today. Told him over the phone as Dave sat on a plane headed for Sweden for some acoustic show or other. I wasn't there, but it's a pretty big deal to tell Dave. My Mom is next. We'll have her over for a barbeque on Saturday. Serge's Mom arrives Monday. Everyone else will learn during 4th of July (favorite holiday!) festivities. By then, well, the cat is pretty much outta the bag.

Doctor appointment today was uneventful. They asked a lot of questions, drew a lot of blood and scheduled me for an ultrasound next Thursday. That'll be eleven weeks, one week shy of the end of the Goddamned first trimester A.K.A. the worst two months of my life. Doc also commended me for going off the Paxil cold turkey. Says that's the worst SSRI to be on while pregnant. Called in sick to work today. Allow me to detail why:

It all began yesterday. Serge was driving me to work. We're sitting at a red light when the urge to puke hits me like a train. I remember we have shopping bags in the trunk in case Max tries to avail himself of public property while we're out and about. I tell Serge I gotta puke then leap from the car and run to the trunk. I grab a shopping bag and stumble back to the passenger seat just in time to retch into the bag. Damn! Serge says. I thought you were puking in the trunk! Why would I puke in the trunk? I pant between retches. I dunno is the reply.

I tell my husband to keep driving me to work... There I am puking my guts up to the jazz station Serge insists we listen to. Then my pants feel wet. I think I've pissed myself because I'm retching so hard. It has happened before. I lift the bag from my lap to take a peek and realize the plastic has a giant tear gaping across the bottom. Essentially, I've been puking into my lap. I cry. And cry. All the way to work. There's puke all down my pants, on the car seat, on the car floor. Did I mention the puke was electric blue? From the two sips of Blue Raspberry Slurpee I managed to get down. Electric Blue Puke. Good punk rock band name.

Today I retched all the way home from the doctor and thought, fuck it. I am not going to work today. And I didn't.