This morning was my day to drop Evangeline off at school. We both were dressed and ready to go early, which left a little extra time to cuddle in front of an episode of “Dora the Explorer.” We were singing along, “Dit, dit, Dora, dit, dit ,Dora; Swiper-no-swiping; Swiper-no-swiping; O Man,” when I interrupted the theme song with coughing, which morphed into hacking, which turned into a sprint to the bathroom and, finally, loads of purple vomit in the toilet. Yes, purple. No, I can’t think of anything I’ve eaten that could remotely be described as purple. The possibility of night eating has crossed my mind, but I can’t think of any food or combination of foods in my house that would lead to purple vomit. Do you think I’m night breaking into the local Save-A-Lot and consuming grape soda?

Healthwise, it’s been a rough couple of weeks. On April 21^st, I work up inexplicably cranky. I yelled at drivers for obeying their traffic signals when I wanted to jaywalk in front of them. I answered my local Streetwise vendor’s “good morning” with a “hmph” [I swear the “hmph” was me choking off a “humbug” on the way out of my mouth—I was that cranky.] During a meeting with my supervisor and partner that afternoon, I felt the room temperature drop a good 30 degrees. Their matching confused looks in response to my repeated question, “why is it suddenly so cold in here?” led me to believe that I was not only cranky, but sick as well.

The fever hit the next day, and I stayed in bed on Thursday and Friday. By Saturday, my temperature broke 101 and I emailed my hematologist to beg for drugs. She prescribed a Z pack. Apparently, Z packs are prescribed for everything from pneumonia to gonorrhea [when Eric read the latter, he asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell him]. On Monday, I stayed home from work. My hematologist phoned me and told me that she would see me anytime I would come in. I decline an appointment because I’ve developed an irrational belief that as long as I don’t go to the hospital, I’m not really that sick.

The lowlight of this sick spell was the nose bleeds. I went through boxes of Kleenex, then dish towels, then I would hold my head over the toilet. Finally, when I decided that I had sacrificed too many sweatshirts, blankets and towels to my blood falls, I just stripped down and napped in the bathtub.

So to further humiliate myself by making compromising facts public, I, Janeen, admit that I’ve read the entire Twilight series. Not only have I read the entire series, I’ve hated the heroine, Bella, since chapter one. I can’t stand her constant complaints about her superlatives—too many suitors, too deeply in love, too beautiful, too smart, to self-sacrificing, etc. I think my obsession with the series can be partially contributed to a hope that at some point one of the attractive vampires or virile werewolves will maim or kill Bella. Anywho, I bring this up because, in Book 1, the dashing vampire Edward is forced to carry Bella to the nurse’s office “The Bodyguard” style because the smell of blood makes Bella attractively woozy. Bella describes the scent of blood as metallic. To bridge this thought back to me—as I was soaking in a tub of my own blood, I thought, “this does smell like copper.” Dammit—that makes Bella always right as well. Jacob should have eaten her.

I am back at work this week. I feel loads better, but, obviously, still can’t shake this consumption style cough (and the purple vomit is worrisome). On the 15^th, I see my hematologist and get re-staged—so, for better or worse, we’ll know if the Zevalin worked.

There is some good news—my period is back. Given my multiple of health issues, the return of Aunt Flo doesn’t equate to the possibility of a housefull of babbling babies, but it is making me feel youthful and not so close to death as I had before.