As I sit and type, I am reminded of my first days working post college. I am sitting in a small break room, surrounded by a noisy refrigerator, a water cooler, and white-white walls. A bulletin board hangs crooked above a fake plant in a faded brass bucket and signs tell me how to exit the building in case of an emergency- how to exit the 900 square foot space with four doors out, all clearly marked with bright red signs and arrows.
I am sitting and waiting. If I weren't married and pregnant. If I weren't already a mother. Rather, if I were wearing a Boy Scout uniform in the middle of Georgia, I would swear I am 10 years younger and planning a jamboree while eating lunch and giving secret handshakes to Eagle Scouts as they walked by.
When I was pregnant with LMC- I did my best efforts to hide the scenes behind the curtain, until it got to be too much. After releasing the insecurities, the fears, and the unknowns... I felt better. Now, I am aiming for the laugh, rather the cry.
This time though, I am a little more prepared and can come to these things with a small sense of humor. Not Boy Scout uniform sense of humor, but humor-- nonetheless. This time- this pregnancy has not been as bad as the last one. My days are not spent hanging over the porcelain god. My evenings are not chopped into 84 pieces as I get up and down from the bed all night long. Some of the problems I had (and too embarrassed to mention) are not here this time around.
But, some are.
In the past few weeks, I have been to see a high risk doctor. This is what happens when your doctor walks into a darkened room and finds his patient wearing sunglasses with a three year old playing quietly next to her. Sobbing, I tell him the my 34 year old brother had a stroke and my husband works 100 hours a week. He recommends a follow up appointment with a specialist and sends me on my way.
Men, even doctors, don't know how to deal with crying women.
The high risk doctor asked me four questions a week later, deemed me healthy and this a pointless visit.
thankyouverymuch- I could have told you that.
I switched practices.
Not that I doubted her... or him... or them... but, I like hand holding and warm and fuzzy. Babies are cute and cuddly (and screaming urchins) -- and I need warm and fuzzy.
New doctor referred me to a cardiologist based on the joke that was LMC's delivery. New doctor was warm and fuzzy. New doctor gave me a hug on the way out the door. New doctor and New nurse have both called to check on me and promptly relay information on test results.
New doctor told me I needed to be tested for preeclampsia. I hate being tested for preeclampsia. It's just too embarrassing to go into details. With LMC, I had to do it... twice. Maybe next time I'll tell you about it. My mother might kill me. This time, I had the pleasure of this test under the very watchful eye of my curious three year old. Just think biohazard orange container and taking the metro to the lab.
Cardiologist checked my ticker and I'm in great shape.
Pre-E test was negative.
And then, I failed my one hour glucose test. It was a good'un, too-- 164 with a fail at 130. Whoops.
Which leads me to the here and the now. Despite my best efforts to be prepared, I am a human pin cushion. Of the four veins in my arms that are deemed needle worthy for blood draw- two are already blown and I have some beautiful bruises. I have two more draws waiting for me from the phlobotomist who doesn't know when to speak what is on her mind.
Truly, this is saying something coming from me.
For instance, "What? You're six months pregnant? You're BIG for six months." (thanks? considering I have only put on 10 pounds... thanks)
Or... "You know, this vein is already bruised up pretty good. So, I'm just going to keep pulling from it so as not to hurt your other arm." [SERIOUSLY?!]
Or... "You have a daughter. So now you are hoping this one is a boy?" .... "Oh, it's a girl? Then you need to try for a third." .... "Your other child is three? You sure waited a long time to get pregnant again, didn't you?" ... "Geez, how old are you?"
She needs a backspace key.
Mentally, I am readying myself for Gestational Diabetes, Part II. The gd-GD will not be ideal, but it will keep me in line. There is more than just me at stake. There's a little girl who has no control of the situation, but can only stay warm, incubate, and continue to be so very loved by so many people. So, here I sit... in the break room.