I had to get a blood test at the Agency today to see if I can go ahead with round two tomorrow. Frances' daycare person has a sinus infection and is terrified of passing anything on to me so she closed today, leaving little Ms. Taylor with me for the day and a companion for the lab visit.
It was the first time I've brought either of the girls with me to the Agency and I was fully aware that amongst all the oldies I'd get a bit of a look, what with the conehead, only slightly concealed by my newsboy, and a tiny person holding my hand. What I wasn't prepared for were the looks of what seemed like pity from some of the Agency staff. This "Oh, shit, that's awful" look as they pondered Frances and her sparkly Converse and then me with my cancer. Didn't. like. it. at. all.
I can get used to the glances, the obvious stares, the wondering, the silent story-ascribing, but not pity. I should have launched into some passionate "you'll never amount to anything, little girl" Oscar-worthy tirade from Precious to switch it all from pity to disgust - that would have been much easier to take.
No matter. I have a helper today while I figure out how to make meringues for mini pavlovas and listen for the 50th time to "why you have no hair? I want you to have hair! I have hair! Why didn't Daddy save your hair?"