Potty Paranoia

My last science cycle, this was the day I started bleeding like a stuck pig. Before that, I had been fairly blissfully bopping along, feeling a bit odd, but nothing clear one way or the other. I had been slightly hopeful.

At the Red Army's invasion, I cried in the ladies room, but soon found myself resigned to my fate--a do-over--and demanding the RE's office let off the beta hook, since it was already obvious what had happened: nothing.

Cue sinister strings.

But my beta was positive (sort of) and I had an ectopic.

I'm scared things will happen exactly the same way today. So I have potty paranoia. Toilet terror. Commodophobia. Even though I need to pee every half hour, on the hour, like some sort of urinary NPR update, I hold it. I'm scared to look down and see what's up.

Why do we feel that events will repeat themselves? It's as if some oddball part of our brains insists on extrapolating whatever has gone before endlessly into the future. That's why it's so impossible for many of us to ever imagine getting a positive test, getting an encouraging sonogram, getting to labor and delivery.

We've had the same thing, with slight variations, happen over and over and over again. Our minds just can't fathom that sudden shift, that huge change when everything that's gone before is relegated to the past, and thus, in some respects, to uneasy irrelevance.

I don't know what will happen to me tomorrow. But I refuse to feel fear today.