It’s quiet in the laboratory today, so I do some paperwork. The office has made a code for thingy-maternal hemorrhage kits, so I can order one without typing the f-word. Without appropriate testing and treatment, pregnant women might develop antibodies.
Remember, no one uses the term “fetuses” anymore. Call them “man-babies.” It makes people think of themselves, remembrance of times past and all that.
I’m sitting with my mother this morning at the rehab hospital. She is learning how not to be so vulnerable, using a walker, working at not dragging her leg after her like a heavy sack, lifting small weights over her head.
Since Brexit, they’ve opened a tanning studio where the Polish deli used to be. I’m inside, curled up on a sun-bed like a fetus. Going to make my skin invulnerable.
Neighbor-Bill’s a pill! we joke—at first. New in the neighbourhood, we begin on friendly enough footings. Bill offers endless help. To hear him pontificate, you’d swear he’s President of The Entire Fucking Universe—but he’s a retired mailman.