Today as I was about to leave the house to go to work (because all of my time away from the office has gotten me in a bit of a pickle and requires me to work weekends because I’m not around at least 2 days every other week and sometimes every week of late) I made a rather horrifying discovery.
Our home’s hot water tank had exploded and spilled its scalding guts all over the furnace / laundry room floor.
I have since discovered that (a) hot water tanks that behave in this manner are beyond repair; (b) replacement of said tanks will cost us between approximately $1,500 and $3,000 plus an extra $1,000 if we wanted it done after hours (meaning, say, today).
I have booked the LP, the MT and I a room at the hotel adjacent to my office building. Because that’s how I roll when crisis strikes.
In other bad news, because Dr. Braverman in a moment of dogmatic medical purism and no thought to my psychological well-being denied me the opportunity to get a beta done Friday to ease my mind and instead said I should wait until Monday (5 days after my last beta), I have continued to pee on things. Do I sound bitter? See above if that seems out-of-the-blue and think no warm or hot running water when the forecast where I live includes possible snow today and tonight and both the LP and I have office jobs where we must bathe before attending meetings with others and clients.
Peeing on things has proven to be the most anxiety-provoking experience of the entire weekend (yes, worse than the water heater – a broken appliance cannot kill my last chance at having another living child and isn’t going to cost me or us tens of thousands of dollars so it’s small potatoes by comparison). In fact, peeing on things has taken a very narrow second place to ultrasounds as the all-time greatest inducer of stress and what appear to me to be very similar to the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder about which I have received some education.
My test lines had gotten darker. Darker than the control lines. And then they went back to not being darker than the control lines. I have consequently lost my mind and no measure of efforts to self-soothe have completely quelled the resulting anxiety.
In short, my weekend has majorly sucked and I want to throat punch Dr. Braverman for not listening to me. (I need someone to blame and I don’t know the name of the Water Heater Gods, okay? Cut me some slack or come hang out in my anxiety-wracked body for a few days already, will you?)
On that bitter and hostile note, I shall leave you to await some hopefully better news tomorrow. If it’s really bad news I may not post tomorrow because the bad news is so much harder to face and, consequently, share.