palace of winds

I break from your sporadically-scheduled Baton Rouge updates to give you: My life! In real time! (Which I’ve been trying to avoid, since I’m afraid this will kill the limping progress of said BR updates entirely. But there comes a point.)

Most people who know me know I don’t get sick. I very occasionally have things that resemble sickness, but I don’t call them this, and they go away. I believe resolutely in the charmed strength of my constitution, and I’m perhaps a little stupid and superstitious about it but it works for me.

So I’m ill-equipped to deal with the thought that something might be wrong. I am so used to ignoring this thought, and I’m afraid that while I haven’t been paying it any mind it’s gotten over-large and vicious and it’s looming huge and dark just beneath the surface. I am shorter steps from silliness than I like. I’m afraid I’m no longer able to differentiate between a legitimate concern and stupid obsessive worrying.

Usually my course runs: ‘Huh, xyz. It’s probably nothing.’ I ignore it; it goes away, or at the least I forget about it.

This fall, Alex’s tiny chubby perfect rosy hand in mine: Me: Huh. My skin looks kinda yellow. Mel: Perfect enviable baby complexion vs lingering summer tanness, etc. Me: Huh, yeah. *forgets*

Two days ago, no chubby perfect baby hand, as Alex has again been filched by his grandma: Mel: You look really yellow. Carotene poisoning, jaundice, etc. Not at all the thinking pre-suspect-veg-diet.

Yesterday, my OB NP: Do you use sunless tanner?

Thank you, NP, for that brilliant diagnosis suggestion. But no, alas. (And I like to think I would’ve figured that one out on my own.)

So now I alternate moment by moment between thinking I look fine and thinking I look fluorescent. When it’s not a little unsettling it’s pretty hilarious, my brain blowing it all out of proportion.