Stress does that, though, right? Messes with your rhythms, makes it difficult for your body to regulate the heinously complex chemical cocktails it’s constantly shaking up. Right? For that week, I can believe that. I’m short on tampons, so I even go and buy a variety pack. I’ve been late before, and it always arrives with a vengeance. After the next week, I panic. I’m on the phone making an appointment with a woman I never expected to see in a professional setting. My friend Annie is a doula, and I’ve referred lots of my own clients to her. She’s fantastic. She’s also a calming presence. Almost the moment I walk in, Annie sizes me up like the village wise woman, both eyebrows raising just a hair. I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in half the stuff she sometimes says, but that look makes my heart ache in my chest. “Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, no…”
