Second Opinion
We were bound to have a little glitch. While Mr. Forty is quick to point out that humans have managed to give birth for a millennia (some, he claims, while being chased by cheetahs), we seem to be a bit stumped when it comes to finding the right fit for our obstetrics.
I predicted this early on. I chose a group that is associated with a hospital that I fundraise for and support and love dearly. It is the “hospital of last resort” in our area, taking on the “indigent cases” (which until Jan. 1 could also define any poor bastard that doesn’t have a couple million dollars cash on reserve to pay for their health care and found themselves in an unexpected health crisis with no insurance). This hospital also ranks in the top 5 for transplants in the country and has some of the finest doctors anywhere in the world.
I like this hospital very much. It’s full of good decent people and they’ve cut me open and sewn me up better than before on a few occasions.
That said, the women’s group associated with it is… well… efficient. Too efficient.
Mr. Forty mentioned that we got to see Critter on Friday. We hadn’t planned on it, but my APRN thought it might be nice since I’m “older.”
I guess being older comes with some perks.
Waiting for the ultrasound was an interesting and unintended political moment. There we sat next to the ultrasound machine – the monitor and the corded device with three potential “attachments.” One attachment looked very much like the handheld roller that goes over the cold belly jelly and produces images (when it comes to looking for the space alien in your belly – that device comes out in the 12th week). Another attachment didn’t really ring any bells and I really didn’t think about it because the third attachment was A HUGE GODDAMN DILDO.
I pointed at it and said, “That is a transvaginal ultrasound.”
Mr. Forty’s eyes got very large and his face took on that shape that men get when they realize that they are staring at something shaped similar to their “special purpose” but much, much larger.
Suddenly we found ourselves in the quintessential Carol Hanisch moment where the personal is political. Mr. Forty and I are good liberals and we strongly support the right to choose. Interestingly I have a much more conservative view for myself and fortunately my obsessive behavior towards birth control ensured that I never had to make that choice – but that’s the beauty of choice… you can choose.
I watched as he found himself face-to-face, or rather face-to-9” of thick rubbery cock. I saw him doing the “math” in his head.
“So, that’s… what…”
“Yup darlin’ that’s why when we have to have the procedure without our consent, ‘rape’ isn’t an exaggeration.”
It was almost exactly at that moment that our tech came in and while we made small talk, she began to tear the top off of a small packet of lube.
“Oh no,” I groaned.
Because they don’t lube up your belly.
To be fair, this wasn’t my first transvaginal ultrasound, it wasn’t even my second. It was my third. I had one back in the early 00’s. I believe to this day it was because my doctor had just gotten this fancy new toy and wanted to try it out for any reason possible. Later, I described it as being “gang banged by a Mr. Microphone.” The second time was part of a whole series of health issues that started with kidney stones and ended with a barium enema (and everything in between – literally).
I will say this was the most pleasant reason to get rammed by an object that, if it were connected to a man, I would sober up quickly, find my clothes and say, “Oh I have an early meeting I just remembered… gotta go!”
And with the strangest prep communication I’ve ever heard, “And you’ll feel pressure, pressure, pressure” there Critter was… just chillin’ and being all small and adorable. Critter was rocking the 128BPM and while we found the lyrics to be lacking, it was a great beat for dancing.
Then they measured Critter and suddenly – I’m only 6 weeks 5 days pregnant!!!!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I’ve worked hard those two extra weeks that suddenly aren’t being counted! I’ve built those two extra weeks into my calculations for the holidays, for spilling the beans, for maintaining my sanity, for keeping the “What ifs” at bay.
But there it was, a tiny Critter floating towards the camera and informing us that this was going to take a couple of weeks longer than we might think. I doubt this will be the last time Critter changes our perfectly well thought out plans.
Photos were taken and printed and as we left, the tech said, “Oh your new due date is June 15.”
Oh. Okay.
Then I went out to make appointments for follow up, but the new due date changed everything. Being an aging and decrepit woman past the age of prime ripeness, the ultrasound tech was telling us about a test that has to happen between the 12th and 13th week. This test would determine if we were having a baby or a basket of ears.
“I have to have some test in the 12th or 13th week, but my due date just changed,” I said meekly.
There was some squinting and staring and working around Thanksgiving, but finally it was determined that I would be seen in six weeks. That would be with the high-risk doctor. I know that I’m the “high-risk” in that scenario, but it doesn’t change the fact that “high-risk doctor” conjures up a Dr. Feelgood with a needle hanging out of one arm, a sexy stripper nurse on the other arm, and an overall smell of Jack Daniel, cigars, stale deli meat and Axe Body Spray.
We went home.
That’s when I started staring at a calendar. Always a bad idea. Suddenly the new due date didn’t make any sense – from a period standpoint, an ovulation standpoint, a sex to make the baby in the first place standpoint.
“I’m going to call on Monday and see what’s up,” I said confidently.
I wanted to know how/why the date moved, how/why that changes things, how/why my appointment times would still hit the procedure that has to happen between the 12thand 13th week.
I called. I left a message. When I got my call back, it didn’t go quite the way I expected….
I’m not particularly combative. I say “particularly” because I guess asking a lot of questions could be perceived as combative. I never really outgrew the “But Why?” phase. The more questions I asked, the more frustrated the nurse became. The more frustrated she became, the more I tried to point out what I know…
I’ve never ovulated 26 days after my period.
I really don’t think I had sex anywhere near the new conception date.
I don’t think I was pregnant long enough to get a positive test on the day that I took it (based on the new conception date).
She finally gave up on me and said somebody else would call me.
I gave up on her and went to the internet. I searched around, found a practice that looked good, gave a phone call and lo and behold, an actual doctor could see me the next day at 9 a.m.
That sounds nice.
So I went to the new doc this morning. I’ve also gotten two phone calls from the other medical group. One call was from a doctor who fell apart about three questions in because she didn’t have my chart in front of her. She also was confused why I had questions, since “a doctor went over why my due date changed.” I then informed her that a sonogram tech told us on our way out the door.
Didn’t faze her.
She told me that we would reschedule a follow up and that I would hear from somebody in a few days.
I got a second call from a scheduler telling me that I needed to come in for an ultrasound on November 1st and that was all the information that she had. When I asked why she told me that’s all she was told to schedule. Nothing about a follow up or talking to a doctor – just an ultrasound on Friday.
Yeah, I’m done with them. Sorry, but that’s like 10 strikes and you’re out.
My appointment today with a doctor was very pleasant. The office itself is much more calm and organized. The staff seems less frantic, the doctor talked to me in an office (where I got to keep my clothes on) for over 30 minutes. And it wasn’t me blathering on – she asked questions, I answered. It was an in-depth interview and it was very impressive.
Point blank – I walked out with a plan for appointments. I walked out with an insurance plan through my pregnancy. I walked out with an appointment in four weeks. I walked out with piece of mind.
The only sad thing is… I’m only 7 weeks 2 days pregnant after all.
The amazing thing is… I’m pregnant.
Let’s keep our eye on the prize people.
But why?
Just don’t let them induce you because you are “actually 2 weeks late”…that’s when shit gets REAL.