This morning a special delivery came to my house: Always pads, a bottle of Midol, a hot water bottle, chocolate and a few other items.
"This should help a little, but if it's as bad as it sounds you should consider seeing a doctor. - Love, Laura"
I'm a little too proud to go running to a doc over every little thing, although there's a voice in the back of my head saying that I don't really know what's going on with this body and it couldn't hurt to check it out. Being estranged from your own body really is a wild ride because we all take our baseline health and wellbeing for granted and I'm now spinning out about: what do I not know? It's not like Chantelle could have provided me detailed medical records from day one, and so far she has been incommunicado. I feel strangely anxious about reaching out to say "Hey, are your periods always this much of a nightmare??"
It makes me wonder. I don't exactly feel like I have been set up for success in this body, but then again there's something so suspicious about me being a former lawyer and being in the body of a lawyer -- two entirely different facets of law, but still transferrable skills. Things easily could have been worse.
The pills helped, the hot water bottle helped, the chocolate wound up feeling like the best chocolate I had ever had in my life. I texted "Damon" to say thanks and got no reply. My wife is ghosting me. How do you like that. Talk about mixed messages.
I can't believe women walk around feeling like this though.