Adventures at the Doctor’s Office

While I was pregnant with Margaret Hannah, I was on the same rotation as the next county over’s women’s correctional facility.

Yes.  For real.

I spent 6 months waiting to see my doctor in between the girls in the beige jumpsuits cuffed to each other by the ankle.   When I finally realized I didn’t have to STAY on that day, it made the last few months of her pregnancy considerably less stressful.

It’s not a secret that my OBGYN takes FOREVER if you aren’t the first appointment of the morning or the one right after lunch.  Add 9 harden criminals to that mix, and I was there for 3 or 4 hours sometimes.  The only silver lining to the waiting is that he shows every woman the same kind of care and attention, so I knew when it was my turn, he would answer any question I had and not be in a rush if I were over in labor and delivery.

With Amos, I got put on the same schedule as all of the older women who were just there for yearly checkups.  Those days moved a lot quicker as far as the waiting room went, but there never seemed to be an end to all of the “advice” I was being given.

I had to draw the line at hearing about all of the methods “we used in my day” to get labor started…  I’ll spare your ears and just say the most creative one involved rubbing alcohol, vanilla extract, and cotton balls.

No. No, thank you!

I’ve managed to either be early in the morning or directly after lunch this go-round, but yesterday was a little strange.

My usual 12:45 appointment was pushed to 1:45, and the crazies were in full force in the waiting room with me.  For some reason, there are always a lot of children in that office.  I  totally get that office brings babies into the world and stuff.  I also understand not everyone has somewhere for their children to stay, but I just can’t wrap my mind around the logic behind including your 7 year old in your 35 week group B strep test.  (If you aren’t familiar with that pile of fun, google at your own risk.)

But, whatever.  Bring your kid if you must.  The least you can do is wear real pants and adequate footwear.  I was wedged in between a gaggle of young women who weren’t wearing bras, didn’t bother to slip out of their Spounge Bob and Angry Birds pajama pants, and one didn’t bother with shoes at all.

This may be Alabama, but good grief!  Save that mess for Walmart!

On my other side was a sweet, first time mama who was falling in love on Pinterest. She kept showing anyone who would look her way the cutest little onsies that said things like “If I want it, my Peepaw will buy it!” and “This Princess wears Camo & Totes a Pistol.”

I am exaggerating zero percent when I also tell you she said these exact words: “Listen, I told my granny I could not get the baby that camo tutu I wanted because I just knew once I got started buying her camo stuff I would not be able to stop myself!”

She turned her phone to show me some of the pink boots and giant hairbows she’d just gotten from the Dollar General, but I’m pretty sure I upset her a bit when I laughed at said “That’s cute, but what if she decides she hates all that stuff?”

Sarcasm is a gift and a curse.  My cross to bear, if you will.

I hated to break her heart.

No, not really.  I didn’t.

We’ll call it hormones.

Once my name was called, a nursing student doing clinicals walked me back to the scales.  She asked for a sample, and then had no clue what else to do.  I didn’t mind showing her where the test strips are kept in the nurses station, since I’m pretty much on staff myself there.

After I got into an exam room, she took my blood pressure in the strangest way I’ve ever seen.  She giggled a little bit and said “Hmmm…. 80/50. That just doesn’t seem right.”  I told her it wasn’t, and she wanted to know if it was because I regularly took my own blood pressure at home.  I said, “Uh, no.  I’m just in here a lot.”

She got the right number and grabbed her Doppler.  When I’m laying down, it’s not hard to see where Tobago is.  Like not even a little hard to tell the lumpy parts and bulges from the other places on my stomach.  She picked a relatively low spot to put the wand, and I said “He’s balled up on the right side” and pointed to where he was.  She laughed again and told me we’d see.

We’d see?  No.  YOU will see that YOU are wrong.

And she did.

Small victory.

I don’t know if it’s because I can approach most things in life with a sense of humor or maybe because I have the patience of a saint when it comes to things I know I can’t control, but WHY do I have to be the one to keep experiencing this junk EVERY.SINGLE.TIME???

2 more weeks. 2 more weeks. 2 more weeks.

Being in public is really hard for some people, I know.  But surely the doctor’s office is a place that needs a little bit of “act right?” Either way, I would love to hear about some of your fun encounters in other offices.  I can’t be the only one being subjected to this, can I???

 

 

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