Very superstitious

[cue that awesome line from the Stevie Wonder song]

So, I was sure that me writing my oh so positive post about being spot-free would scare the Dread Pirate Spot out from his lair. In fact, I almost didn't mention it, convinced I'd jinx myself.

But guess what! I'm still crazy, of course, but I was wrong. Clear as a whistle.

You see, in the past, I swore there was a connection between me mentioning to some very, very close friend--like my bestest buddy from New York who is both herbalist and physician's assistant--and it starting the next day, or even the next hour. At the end of my cycle, I knew that even entertaining the happy thought of possible pregnancy would equal icky spots the next morning. Sort of like the magical, period-beckoning powers of the peestick.

I guess we humans are hard wired to start making up weird rules and interconnections when we face a situation that defies our logic and runs out of our control. I'm having a hard time believing that the surgery actually helped, that after years of being told nothing was clear and nothing could be done, that it's done. Just like that. Problem solved, more or less. This little, awful thing that was torturing me, riddling my worst hours with thoughts of life-threatening diseases and permanent sterility, might be over. I still can't embrace this thought, fully, for fear that I'll get kicked in the gut by some silly streaks on the toilet paper. Such a little thing, and yet it's held such a big place in my life.