I've been making preparations this time around; I don't want to be caught off guard like I have in the past. I've made arrangements with work and a babysitter, and I'm coming to clinic in two weeks with my bags packed, entirely prepared to stay for a while. If by some miracle I'm feeling better by then, or if my doctor has an alternative plan, I promise that I won't complain even once about all this planning being in vain. (See? Grown up.) I'll just consider myself a lucky girl and be grateful that I get to go home to my family.
But I must warn you that if that is the case and I don't have to be admitted, as I walk out the doors, bags in hand, I may not be able to restrain myself from doing a little victory dance and telling you to go ahead and SUCK IT!
Your (perhaps not totally grown up) friend,
P.S. Before I come, can you please warn the nursing staff that I will cry EVERY TIME they ask about my baby, and also tell that guy from Respiratory that I have absolutely no desire to talk about his love for Jack Johnson during every... single... one... of my evening treatments. Thanks.