Last Sunday night, as I was still recovering from being pummeled with the stomach flu, Keane left on a business trip...a five day long business trip. I cried like I did back in college when I used to have to say goodbye to him after a weekend visit.
Hear me when I say, I HATE BEING ALONE AT NIGHT. Hate it. The days are fine. I keep busy with to-do lists, cleaning and errands. But as soon as the sun goes down it's like my mind accesses every scary image it has and all of the sudden, people's faces start appearing in the windows.
Before he left, Keane had me doing timed drills with the (unloaded) gun– grabbing, cocking, aiming. He left me an extra clip in case I found myself in a "Rambo-esque shootout." That guy...always thinking.
After puking up my stomach lining for 48 hours straight last week, I found that I had lost a few pounds and my poor belly shrank. I was told not to be concerned about the baby– that (s)he would take the nutrients needed, whether or not I was getting any.
By Monday I was able to eat full meals again and this belly of mine came back with a vengeance. It was the first week I felt like I had popped. A stranger even asked if I was pregnant which made me swell with pride! (Although always a risky assumption, I feel. Never ask a woman if she is pregnant unless and until she is crowning on the hospital bed.)