There are few things in this world I love as much as getting things in the mail. Possibly cats, diamonds, and pistachio ice cream... but I digress. Getting stuff in the mail is so exciting because it means: a) someone acknowledges your existence, b) they spent money on you (even if it is only the postage amount), and c) you don't know what's in there so it's a fun surprise.
However, today I think my love of getting mail took a serious hit when I received a letter from the Women's Hospital asking me what kind of room I would like to have for my impending delivery of a child in a few weeks. This is of course in reference to the baby I lost in miscarriage #1. The one where I attended the emergency room at THAT SAME hospital over 6 months ago, where they told me there was no heartbeat and it was a lost cause. THE SAME hospital where I subsequently attended a follow-up ultrasound to confirm that my uterus was completely empty. You've got to be fucking kidding me.
Needless to say some poor receptionist is going to get an ear full today.