Spotting. Indeed. And cramps. Both getting slowly worse.
(Also, I now have H’s cold, though (so far), not quite as badly as him).
When I first saw the spotting, the pink smear on the toilet paper, I went over to H (we are both working from home today) and told him, and he hugged me and let me sigh in his ear. I muttered ‘at least the poor brat won’t be cursed with a Christmas birthday.’ And then I developed a headache and shuffled away to sulk it off in bed.
The problem with having cycles, even craptastic ones, is the tiny little not-quite-ghost each one generates. The October cycle and the fragment of a ghostelet due in the summer, the extra-long cycle whose wisp of possibility was just-as-I-finish-my-dissertation, the barely more possible sprite whose birthday would have probably been so close to his or her dad’s that maybe no one would have remembered poor H in the excitement. Gossamer things that barely exist, and that because I tried so very hard not to think about them.