My mother-in-law persuaded my sister-in-law to lie to us about the time dinner would be served in order to “get us there on time,” so I baked my white trash hot dish – green bean casserole – early in the morning on Thanksgiving and transported it to Pella already cooked. When we arrived at Krista’s house, I popped it in the oven to warm…

…and it stayed there until the turkey, and afterward, the dinner rolls, were done. Which means it was overcooked, dried out, and burnt on the edges. Although Joe had told me that it was something I was absolutely going to love – I’d actually never eaten it before in my life – I didn’t. It smelled like fried canned onions and wasn’t at all gooey.

The meal was good, though. My plate had zucchini casserole, mashed potatoes, Caesar salad, and stuffing on it. I enjoyed my food a lot, and Andy & Krista’s house is handsome and comfortable and their dining room is really nice.

After the meal, Kris and I sat and talked about pregnancy, birth, and babies while Barb and Andy dealt with dishes and leftovers; later we three women lounged in the living room and talked while the men retired to the family room the glass teat.

While I wasn’t cramping or spotting yesterday, I was suffering from an all-day adrenaline attack or something; my heart pounded and pounded and pounded and I was WIRED. I felt like a crack addict. It was uncomfortable and I emphatically did not enjoy the strongest waves of it, both of which came in the truck while driving to and from Pella.

I was vibing so much on the drive home that Mr. Brett complained of feeling all the same discomforts I was feeling after I vented to him my frustration at having some utterly overwhelming and stupid chemical/glandular/hormone problem running my goddamned life for going on three years now.

Last winter I was depressed and exhausted. And anxious. It sucked. This fall I got the ‘opposite’ symptoms, rushes of arrhythmia and adrenaline so intense I simultaneously want to crawl out of my skin and go deeply to sleep to escape it. It’s like being suspended in an intense moment of fight-or-flight, but it goes on for hours. It’s very nearly unbearable in the literal sense of the word; I almost can’t bear it.

My skin flushes, I pant, my heart pounds so loud I think others must be able to hear it… when it’s not lurching drunkenly over skipped beats and scaring the absolute hell out of me, that is. At those times, I don’t give a shit if anyone can hear it or not because I’m too busy being terrified.

My brain attempts to run with the flood of adrenaline and tries to tell me that Bad Things Are Happening, but I’m never confronted with an enemy so I decide I’m having a heart attack.

I fucking hate it.

But that was yesterday. Today, my heart rate rushed only a little, and I was so exhasted from being totally strung out wired for fifteen hours yesterday that I slept all afternoon and woke up worried that I have to work tomorrow and wouldn’t be able to get any housework done. Which, of course, isn’t true.

Today I’m staining again. I wish the bleeding would make up its mind: either go away, or come on completely. I’m in a wicked limbo. Will it stick? Will it fail? With all this anxiety and sleeplessness and heart-pounding, I think that the hormone balance in my body must be atrocious for an embryo, if indeed it still survives. The overwhelming nausea and breast pain I suffered five days ago has lessened to about 25% of that intensity, but not gone away altogether. I suspect an immunity battle is – or was – being fought in my endometrium, and whacko hormone washes probably aren’t helping either of us adjust.

Arrhythmia aside, I do prefer manic to depressed, though. Today I’ve crashed, my adrenals are probably totally depleted, and I didn’t accomplish anything other than to buy pet food and a few strange groceries. (I didn’t have a list, so I just bought milk and bread and butter and $40 worth of fairly random stuff, much of it fruit and fruit juices. And a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. And some noodles.)

Earlier this evening I ate the rest of the pickle-sickles, so then I had to make more. Brett turned me on to them: after you finish a jar of pickles, you pour the brine into an ice cube tray and freeze them with toothpicks in them. He said he used to buy them at a skating rink for a dime when he was a kid. They’re utterly amazing, people. Yum! I’ve seen him eating them too and he’s not preggo, so I think they might even be good all on their own, progesterone or no! The only reason I haven’t finished off the tray is because there’s no more pickle juice in the house and I don’t want to finish them until I can make more. I ate about eight of them the night before last. I love them!

Watching Bond and cuddling on the futon on the living room floor, I told my beloved that I’m sorry his house is a mess and that he’s not getting much lovin’. He’d asked how I was doing and the best I could come up with is that I feel like rotten fruit, the kind that bursts with bruised and sickly sweetness when you touch it. He hugged me gently and rubbed my back for awhile. I’m tired, I’m wondering about what’s going on in womb-land, and I feel a little like a jerk because all the dishes are dirty and I haven’t cooked the man a decent meal in two weeks. He said he doesn’t mind and that he hopes I feel better soon. My husband is a saint. And that, my lovelies, is all there are to it.

Hope everyone had a yummy holiday!