Monitoring

I am a ball of rage and despair, and that is why I am crying during blood draw.

"Are you okay?" asks nurse.

"No," I say. "Everything about this is terrible. This is a total nightmare and I won't want to be here."

Anyway. The guacamole has been sitting out too long. I'm starting to brown around the edges.

Probably starting stims tonight.

Lab person and nurse are nice about it, though as usual when I self-report an impression or sensation (in this case, "the estrogen is making me volatile") their response is to contradict me ("Weird! Most people say it makes them all lovey-dovey.").

To which I say "Nothing makes me all lovey-dovey."

Also there is someone observing the nurse, which I didn't consent to and which is never fully explained to me. I ask her if she is a student. She says no, she's just observing. I'm like, oh, so you could be anyone? A process server? A debt collector? Knox Harrington, the video artist?

"Yeah, but what are you doing here?" I ask.

"I'm a nurse," she says. No further explanation.

Stay tuned for next week, Succotash, when your would-be mother is involuntarily committed.