She thought she was sick.
She was sick.
Or maybe not.
Maybe, maybe not.
Lord, what a bore she’d become.
The symptoms were holes around a moving target. Did thinking about fatigue make one tired? Was the bloating as bad as she thought or a natural phenomenon magnified by the distorted lens of her perception? That bit of queasiness: it didn’t qualify as nausea. No. A few pounds lost--thanks, stress! The irregular periods, the disturbing dreams and emotional instability? Fuck you, stress.
They’d found something in her blood work. Finally--a something. The doctor gave her some medicine, a cure.
“That should put your mind at ease.”
She’d laughed apologetically. “I’m such a head case.”
Leaving the doctor’s office, Woody Allen’s character in Hannah and Her Sisters dogged her thoughts. Woody, the quintessentially neurotic hypochondriac. God, what a joke.
Her steps slowed near the car. Of course, they’d found something in Woody, too, hadn’t they? It had turned out to be a nothing much, but it was enough of a something to vindicate the second look.
So why did she feel so goddamn ashamed? So queasy with self-loathing?
Why, coming home again, was she still dissatisfied?
She set the prescription bottle on the counter, grabbed her laptop and started another Google search. A spider dangled from the painting of crocuses she’d started two months ago, swaying a little in the breeze. When it touched the floor, the dog licked it up and spat it back out. It scurried off.
She wondered if she wasn’t crazy and looked out the window.
Lord, it was spring.