So my blood pressures and labs were all Rockstarish. Rockstarish, like, normal. As opposed to: full of vodka and traces of rhino tranquilizers. Why don't I just say they were normal? Because I'm a dick, that's why.
The doctor was all, let's look at your 24 hour urine and get you the second steroid dose and then you can be all moon-faced and complainey at home instead of here. Mmmmkkay. So I tell everyone who has rearranged their schedules to watch our outside baby so we can have two more babies and make them watch those two, too, while we go out every Friday and drink vodka and participate in recreational rhino tranqs. (because we are totally Rockstarish).
Then. Then!!! A half hour later? I go for my growth scan. Would you believe me if I told you that tiny twin hasn't grown at all in two weeks? I bet you'd believe me because I'm all woe is me and here is my dramz and oh wait! Let me lay it on you and then not update for like three weeks!
Still waiting to hear from my doctor but I'm guessing I'm having babies this week. Again. Or, always? Or...whatever.
And? AND!!!!! Mark got food stuck in his throat and had to go to the ER. And now he's in GI getting it fished out. I haven't cleared this with him, but there was a similar incident with a hot dog while we were dating that obviously is still mentioned with maniacal laughter on a regular basis. So clearly I am anxious to hear what sort of delicacy is lodged in there this time so I can prepare my ridicule accordingly.
In better news, he is in the very same hospital as me. So they can wheel him down later and we can spend the night groaning inisety while making the other patients think we are bumping uggs. Should be fun!