Page 54 of Storm in a D Cup

As Julian’s thrashing continued I had tried to remember, my mind mush.

‘Signora!Sì o no?’ the doctor had prompted, his voice belying the rising panic that a doctor should never show as my mind raced and searched for any memories of other allergies.

OhGodohGod. What was he allergic to? Oranges, peanuts, cabbages. Hazelnuts, of course. But cortisone? I couldn’t remember. He was allergic to some kind of drug – I always remembered it, but last night, with Julian suffering and the doctor screaming at me I couldn’t think clearly. It was like my mind was in a thick, stagnant fog and there was nothing I could do to shift it.

Was it cortisone… or something that sounded similar?

‘Signora!’

And then, like the sun bursting through the clouds, I had it. ‘Cardizem! He’s allergic to Cardizem!’ I cried and the doctor’s needle immediately sank into Julian’s vein.

In a few seconds he was whisked away and I was left behind the swinging doors, propped up against a wall where I took deep, calming breaths. He’d be OK. He had to be. I couldn’t lose him. And my edible underwear just couldnotbe the cause of his demise.

With a sinking sensation of stickiness, I turned to look at the wall I was leaning against and gasped at the big brown hazelnut stain my butt had left on the pristine surface. I frantically tried to rub it off with the palm of my hand, looking around to make sure there were no witnesses to my abstract art piece.

When that didn’t work, I brought my bare knee up against it for more pressure. Still nothing. A nurse stopped short, stared at the nutter (me) who looked like she was trying to crawl into the wall, sniffed the air and nodded for me to follow her down the corridor to a door, which she opened and gestured for me to follow her.

Inside what looked like a linen closet, she gave me a few towels and a new nightie and led me to the bathroom where she nodded knowingly.

‘I heard your husband is allergic to chocolate?’ she asked.

‘Gianduiafudge,’ I answered and she nodded again.

‘Mine, too. I almost killed the poor man. Next time try caramel,’ she suggested and left me with a grin.

13

By Hook or by Crook

About a week later, Julian had fully recovered from his anaphylactic shock and was back to being his old self. Or almost. I had noticed a slight shift in his demeanor. Was it because he had been traumatized about almost being killed by my underwear? I could understand that. And yet, something was off.

‘You OK?’ I asked him as we got ready for bed.

‘Yep,’ he murmured, folding his T-shirt and putting it on his chair. A task that was taking him a mighty long time, when you consider he usually threw his clothes over the back of said chair. By now one hand would usually be tugging at mine while plucking at my buttons with the other. But tonight? Nothing. It had been seven days and seven nights, which, after all these years, would have seemed even normal, but Julian and I had never had a problem in that department. Until now, apparently. Perhaps he really was traumatized, and perhaps more than I’d thought.

I stood to my feet and rounded the bed, holding out my hand to him. ‘Fancy a shower?’

I swear, I think I startled him, he looked up at me with those huge eyes. ‘Uhm, no, I’m good, thanks. I’m tired, anyway. Goodnight…’

Oh.Oh.

‘Good… night, then…’

I knew something was going on. He was still mad at me. But it wasn’t like I had done it on purpose, was it? I mean, really? How many times did I have to apologize?

*

With our romantic buzz dissolved like ice-cream cones on a windy day, at this point getting pregnant was going to be very tricky as Julian no longer seemed to have the inclination to make love to me, almost as if he was afraid I’d manage to kill him after all in between the sheets with, I don’t know, poisonous pillowcases or something.

Funny, because while I was married to Ira, I’d had all sorts of fantasies about all the different ways I could kill him. In the past few weeks after our last failure, it had become obvious that Julian was having issues, which I hoped were temporary, because we had a baby schedule to stick to and as my doctor said, it was now or never. I needed to secure a pregnancy now. The rest, we could hash out together later. Right?

So like every other woman rapidly running out of ideas while nearing the end of her fertility tether, I surfed the net (alone, this time) in case I’d missed any of the gazillion tricks listed, keeping his allergies in mind. Medieval, magical or mystical, I was going to try them all.

Daily sex – and feeling sexy in general – seemed to be the top one, or rather, didn’t seem to be it, because sex was instead recommended every other day during your fertile windows. Oh thank God! Now I could stop dreading bedtime. Dread? Ouch, that was harsh even for me. I didn’t dread bedtime. No, the baby project had to be rushed full steam ahead.

Scrolling down the long list of miracle-workers were, in case you wanted to get pregnant and didn’t know, grapefruit juice, leafy greens, raspberry leaves. Raspberry leaves, really? Never seen that one before. Stinging nettles (been there, done that – it doesn’t work, BTW). Neither do grapefruit and yams.

*

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