Relapse

I had a horrible dream last night, in which I lost Bug. It was a weird dream, and the loss of Bug was related to some hard partying, drinking and possible drug use, so not entirely realistic, but still unsettling.

As bad dreams are likely to do, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I got up when Matt got up this morning and went to the bathroom, convinced that if there wasn't anything, I could/should really just forget about it. Well, of course, what came back? My friend Spot. WHYYYYYYYYY.

Naturally, I became slightly hysterical. It feels like at this point I should be more "accustomed" to this happening, and be less freaked out by it, but it's actually the opposite. The fact that so far Bug has been completely unaffected by it should make me feel better, but it doesn't, because I worry that one of these times it really will be something bad. It was great when there were weeks where nothing happened, but this once a week for the past three weeks is just so damn unsettling (and frustrating and depressing and confusing and...)

There's no use in calling the doctor today, because they really can't do anything about it (sucks), and it's really probably not cause for emergency. So Basie, Bug and I will just sit here, terrified to go to the bathroom, even though we might really have to pee right now.

It seems like my belly grows exponentially every day, looking more and more like I ate a basketball (boy?). I know it's probably barely halfway to where it will be at the end, and that's a little scary. How do things stretch that big?? How will my back be able to handle it, since it seems it can barely handle it right now? And then I think of other questions like, where the hell does my liver go?

My appetite will flare up in spurts. The other night I had Matt make a frozen pizza at 9 p.m., but that's only because we didn't have any cinnamon rolls or carrot cake in the house. And then it's gone again, Bug back to subsisting only on things tasting of orange (did you know that Fanta is caffeine free?).

My parents told me this weekend when they came over that they might take Cookie (childhood dog, The Original Poodle and possibly the entire reason we got Basie) to the vet this week to be put down. I've never lost a pet before. I know that she's old, and while not sick, walks into things, can't hear, can't really walk, falls down, must wear a diaper 24/7 so she doesn't soil the entire house, etc, but it still makes me want to cry. I don't know that I can accept purposefully taking something's life away that had no choice (I believe the words I used were, "Now 'murder' might be too strong of a word here, Dad, but I don't think it's right"). Matt's response was, "how do you think you were able to eat your "delicious" hot dog at lunch?"

I suppose it was inevitable, but it's still sad (don't worry, Matt is very sad, too). Bug says, no Mom, you will not be a vegetarian while I am in your tummy.