In a hot second, I’m going to talk about puke.  You may want to skip ahead.

I hate feeling sick.  I promise.  I mean, who doesn’t hate that creepy crawlie in the back of your throat feeling?  I hate when the room is spinning.  I hate knowing that retching is imminent.  I hate that I don’t even feel better afterward like you do post-tequila bender and pre-hang over.  Never ending nausea is not cool.

But then, yesterday I was pretty ok most of the day.  I wasn’t terribly ill.  I was able to leave my couch, drive my car, attend a social function, and eat food all without thinking about puke (or asiago cheese, which is what nausea tastes like to me … ick).  At first, I was stoked.

Then I started worrying.

These early weeks are the ones that require the most blind faith.  I can only know there’s a parasite (which I mean with the most endearment possible)  in there because the good people at EPT tell me there is.  I don’t have xray vision.  The little bugger doesn’t move around yet and remind me that it’s still there.  I haven’t seen it’s little speck of a self in black and gray yet.  All I have is a stick that turned blue, insufferable exhaustion and this nausea to reassure me.

And when that nausea gives me a (much appreciated) few hours of relief, I start to get concerned.

Is something wrong?  Is the tadpole still a tadpole?  Is it where it’s supposed to be?  Is everything going ok?  If it is, why am I not sick if I was sick yesterday?

And then, like magic, all I can think of is cheeseburgers and aged parmesan (up there with asiago on my list of things that currently smell like vomit) and we’re back to gritting my teeth and hoping it will go away if I just. don’t. move.

Somehow, my nausea is now my security blanket.

Tell me this goes away, please.

Em.

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