The doctor wants me to come in and get another blood draw on August 11. Hopefully at that point the hemoglobin count will be improved enough to go ahead and schedule the damn surgery. How long does it take to make blood cells, anyway? I should investigate that.
I still get winded when I come upstairs from the basement, but at least now I only need to sit for a minute to recover (rather than collapsing on the couch and panting for a quarter of an hour). The men I live with have gotten all solicitous. The Artist checks on me daily, asking how I’m feeling. I think he’s got a better idea than the other two of how long the problem has been going on; when we went to Florida my stupid period kicked in (a few days early, I had hoped it would hold off until we got back) and I had to ask him to drive for much of it because I was too dizzy to do so safely. So he’s been worried about me a while longer than the other two.
The hormone pills the doc prescribed for me are doing their job, preventing me from menstruating. I’m being very conscientious about taking them. At this point I’m four days past when my period should have started, and I have this irrational conviction that if I miss a damn pill my period will immediately begin full force and probably kill me. Then my uterus will finally be free to rampage through the city, maiming and pillaging and wreaking havoc as it clearly wants to do. I’M DOING THIS FOR THE GREATER GOOD, I TELL YOU.
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