She is Swedish, and thinks eating smoked fish is fine.
She wears (very hip) thick-rimmed glasses, and lots of mascara too.
She spews data like Dr. Data himself.
She talks all the time. ALL THE TIME. But she listens, too.
She said truer and more resonant things about my mother than anyone else so far. "You know, I think that people with mental illness very often die without anyone really knowing why. It is so hard for them to communicate their experience, and it can be very hard to treat them."
"This time coming up, this will be when you begin to miss your mother. Or perhaps you have already been missing her, when she was very sick this year, or perhaps you have been missing her for a long time already if her problems meant that she was not able to care for you. But what is coming is one of the true purposes of life, one of the real moments, and you will be very aware that she is not there and perhaps only then begin to understand."
And about other things, too: "You shouldn't worry too much about delivery. Start reading child-rearing books. That's the real adventure."
No ultrasound today (10w1d), but I got Dopplered and all was well. I giggled uncontrollably as she contrasted my heartbeat and the it's.
I wish I had some time to relax and think. Walking back from lunch (yes, still by myself, damnit) I passed a flower shop and: I wanted to buy the irises, and the bright yellow gerberas, and the freesia. They were beautiful in the sun and I was happy.
But the program at the Institute is in especially high gear this week. Zillions of visitors, zillions of talks. There are grad students sleeping on my floor, and there will be other guests this weekend. Must keep up the momentum, must not allow problematic professional self-esteem to overwhelm me, must not hide. Must smile, and not just to myself.