Baby blues

Rejected title: Say a prayer for the little one

I’ve realized that by 2:30 p.m. each workday, that’s when I truly hit my “I’m so disgusted with this place, I could just kill someone” mark.

It hasn’t been a bad day, though. Demure is out; her secretary only cornered me for 20 minutes this morning; no e-mail = no responsibility (today, at least) for what was in it (although we’ve been informed that any e-mail we received after 7:30 p.m. Wednesday is toast); Shan is here and relatively healthy today (minus her newly diagnosed case of ICP; and Cruise Director is nowhere to be seen.

But this is just the time of day when I’m downright stressed out about everything. Of course, today I have plenty of reason to feel that way.

I went home violently ill on Friday, right after H.R. made the job offer to Witchy Woman, so much so that I was incapacitated for the rest of the evening. My body is never wrong — I would only assume that it went into convulsions for a reason. I hope she’s a hell of a lot less formal than she came across in her interview — she has the skills I want and need for her to have, but will she be able to gel with me? It’s not like I have a lot of allies around there — I need somebody who won’t get caught up in the Mouth Almighty/Town Crier end of the hallway fondly known as the Bermuda Triangle.

Speaking of bodies in revolt, although I’d never tell Shan, I’m worried sick over her own health. She’s so damned itchy that she’s been scratching herself with letter openers and Exacto knives. We quip that she looks like a drug addict, continually twitching and bearing bloody scratches on her arms and legs. And with this ICP crap, it’s looking like she might have to plan to deliver the baby early (no problem for her — she’s got seven weeks to go and can’t wait to end the itching and sickness). But I am struck by a huge risk of stillbirth with this ICP business. So is she, but I keep reassuring her that there is a risk even when the mother’s health is perfect.

So today I did something I haven’t done, well, ever. I said a prayer. What I prayed to, I don’t know. If it was heard, well, we’ll see. I prayed for Shan and Alex to both get through this pregnancy and birth as healthily and happily as possible. I prayed for a long and loving life and mother-daughter relationship for them. I prayed that Shan’s health and sanity holds up. I prayed that Alex hangs in there and gets to know this phenomenal woman who is going to be an incredible mother.

I reassure Shan that everything will go well. I tell her that if ever Alex gets out of line, I will remind her how much her mom went through to have her. I beg Shan to put a little more faith in her own strength. I remind her that in two months, we’ll be chugging beers, smoking a blunt and watching her pretty little girl sleeping soundly in a bassinette. I let her know that it’s okay for her to rant and rave and cry and that she doesn’t have to be Superwoman all the time. I ask her to be patient and to concentrate on herself and that baby, even though so many other things are going wrong in her life, outside of her body.

And I wonder what I can do to make things better for her, when she’s done nothing but be an amazing friend and lifesaver for me. And that’s something she continues to do, no matter how wretched she feels or how disgusted she is by work and other worries.

On that note, she’s on a reduced work schedule, and I’m off to call her and make sure she’s leaving around 3 p.m. 🙂 I know I can’t do much to take away her pain, but I might just be the only person at this godforsaken workplace whom she’ll listen to, and damn it, I am kicking her outta here for the day!!! 😉

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