If I still wrote poetry, I might actually write an ode to olives today. I have been feeling the ick worse than ever, and no matter which remedy I employ, it doesn’t seem to be going away. I ate about ten saltines. I had a good breakfast with fruit and yogurt and whole grains. I had ginger tea. I was sitting here turning green, a frown growing across my face. And then I remembered olives–those lovely, salty green orbs–the only thing that can cure the ick nearly instantly for me. They are the magic elixir.
J, ironically, is allergic to the things. They make her vomit, and as a result, we haven’t had them in the house much since we’ve been together, despite my great love for them. When we do, I have just a few that I get from the olive bar at the market so that she doesn’t have to see them. Now, she is handling whole jars of them because they make me feel better. She is such a trooper.
I honestly thought I might escape the all-day ick, but that has not been the case the last few days. Yesterday, I walked into a grocery store only to be assaulted by the overwhelming odor of chicken frying. I can’t stand the smell of meat cooking right now, and I have always hated this cloying odor of frying chicken, so this very nearly caused my first lost lunch. Thus, it would seem that I haven’t escaped the ick at all; I’m just late to the game. I don’t do nausea well. I am frankly a baby about it. I hope it doesn’t get much worse than this. I really, really hope it doesn’t. If it does, my doc has me ready to take extra B6. I need to pick some up. Oh please don’t let this get worse.
Eight weeks tomorrow. Somehow that feels like a milestone. I may celebrate by buying a giant jar of olives.
