I’m a weepy mess. I have 5.5 weeks to go in this pregnancy and I’m going to need to buy stock in Kimberly-Clark if I continue in the way that I have.
Everything makes me cry.
I Googled the lyrics to You’ll Never Walk Alone for the Cafe Society thread about the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon, and I read them, and I cried. Now, that wasn’t terribly unusual, the song has always brought a lump to my throat at the best of times, but then it worsened.
I read the thread and saw Shirley Ujest’s story about the loss of her brothers and what t-keela shared about the diagnosis of both his wife and daughter, and then I was a crumpled heap upon my bed.
I turned on the television to get a bit of respite, and in surfing, I landed upon Sister Act 2. Yes, the cheesier sequel to the cheesy Whoopi Goldberg flick. But I watched, as it was nearing the end and I enjoy the music in the choir competition segment. But when Lauryn Hill started singing Joyful, Joyful, the tears started yet again, and were flowing freely when the song was over and the channel was changed.
I made the mistake of switching to CNN. 5 more US soldiers killed, this time in the new action in Afghanistan, 2 more in Iraq as well. The continuing, unfolding, bizarre and awful story about Brian Wells, the man killed with a bomb cuffed around his neck after robbing a bank in Erie. Tens of thousands of people mourning passionately over the death of Ayatollah Al-Hakim in Najaf, Iraq. The Mets actually win a game. Tears, tears and more tears.
At this point, I was just a soggy mess. I didn’t even have any more tears, I was literally dried up, feeling parched, sprawled across damp pillows and surrounded by a wreath of crumpled tissues. I called Mr. tlw to bring me a liter bottle of water lest I dehydrate.
This has been going on for a week. I’ve cried over the stupidest things, I’ve cried harder over awful things. I’ve cried in confusion over my feelings about items in the news, like the overturning of 100+ death penalties in western states. I’ve cried because UnbornBabytlw will never know either grandfather, then I cried because I was missing my father for myself. I cried for Pittsburgh Steeler Joey Porter because he got shot. I cried because my sweet little dog came in, jumped up into my bed and lay cutely at my feet.
I’ve never before been this quick to break down. My eyes are burning. My throat is scratchy. My nose is as red and swollen as W.C. Fields’s. I am, to put it mildly, wrung out.
I will never last till October 6 at this rate. This is disgusting.
I turn to my Doper friends; advice, encouragement, even jokes are welcome at this point. Please, I beg you, help a poor little bed-bound pregnant woman, won’t you?