March 28: Sheffield asks, do I think it's a boy or a girl. I say I have no instinct on the matter, but based on how I feel, whoever's down there is banging on a set of drums, tap-dancing, has ordered pizza with extra pepperoni, is playing video games with the TV on and the radio --both turned-up--, is practicing on the trampoline, trying out a soliloquy, sanding the walls, dancing on the ceiling, and just generally making itself clear: "I am running this show, mama!" Sheffield says, with a small sigh, "It is my baby."
March 29: I visit my friend Jenn in Asheville. She enters my lodging, hugs me, and this is how the conversation goes:
J: Hi!
G: Hi!
J: How are you!?!
G: Okay...
J: Are you pregnant?
She's pretty intuitive, but she had no effing way of knowing.
I am not fooling anyone.
I tell the truth.
March 30: I begin the Opposite Ginna Diet. No vegetables. Bring me carbs. White carbs. White salty carbs...
But I will only eat half of them.
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March 31: I'd like to write today, but there is nothing funny about dry heaves.
April 1: I'd like to write today, but there is nothing funny about vomit.
April 2: I eat my last meal for the next three days. It is half of a fruit smoothie and a quarter of a bagel. I cry on the phone when I tell my colleague that I cannot board a plane to see my play-reading in a week. I cry at everything.
... but Sheffield continues to make me laugh.
April 3: Flattened. One liter of IV fluid. The foreman who is working on my aunt Mary's house where I am staying comes to the bedroom door when he hears the sounds of retching. The poor man discovers me, starfish-style, with my head hanging off the side of the bed and an IV in my left arm hooked-up to a bag hanging from the ceiling fan. I don't know which of us felt worse for the other.
April 4: Flattened. Two liters of IV fluid. I do not leave my room.
Nausea is a monster who is always in the room. Sometimes he attacks. Today was a bludgeoning.
April 5: I wake up at 3:30 AM to puke. It is the last puke for a while, because now I take anti-nausea medicine every four hours. I still need one liter of IV fluid.
April 6: Over the course of an entire day, I consume solely the contents of one can of soup. Almost. Some rice and stuff stuck to the bottom and looking at it made me gag, so I left it. But I still feel like a champ.
April 7: I take bath and blow dry my hair. It knocks me out for an hour.
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April 8: I can eat a potato! I can take a walk!
April 9: I hate potatoes. I can't walk.
April 10: I hate food. I can't lift my head.
April 11: I will never enjoy food again. I am a professional Out-The-Window-Starer.
April 12: On their way home, my parents stop to get me a Taco Bell burrito and a McDonald's Milkshake. This is amazing. They are amazing. (PS: This shit would never fly when I was an actual dependent. They just really want a grandkid.)
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