I’ve decided there must be a lot of psycho pregnant women out there. I don’t think I’m one – at least not yet – so it’s a bit surprising to me to be treated as if I am one by most of the medical personnel I interact with these days.
As you know, I’m suffering from a bevy of issues with this pregnancy. Basically, I gots me two ovaries chock full of cysts, which are continuing to grow and cause me much pain, though I’m proud to say I’ve yet to drop an F-bomb. (Unless “fartknocker!” counts.) The doc has wisely decided not to do surgery because it could compromise my health and the baby’s, as well as send both my ovaries (and babymakin’ ways) to an early grave. Unfortunately, I’m also suffering from high hormone levels, which is going to keep the cysts growing until the baby is born, at which point we hope they’ll spontaneously disappear. The biggest bummer of all is that I’m going to look like I’m carrying triplets. I know, I know, it’s my punishment for being so vocal in my fear of having multiples. That or for calling a girl “Stallion!” growing up because she had unkempt curly hair and looked like she would fancy unicorns.
Oh, and I have placenta previa, too, which is also a bummer. So basically it’s going to be a long, painful and really ugly five and half months until Baby Dub makes his/her debut.
But the point of all of this is that I’ve had to speak with my doctor a lot more than the average patient. I don’t call her much because I’m not the freak-out type, but she often leaves me messages to give her a ring. But every time I call the office and ask for her they say, “Um, are you even a patient?” Duh. Then they say, “Well, she works during the day, ma’am, but you are welcome to leave a message with a nurse.” When I tell them she personally asked me to call her back, they promptly respond, “Oh, she’s right here, hold on.” Whhaa?
Still, I sort of understand. I’m sure there are a lot of obsessive pregnant women harassing the doctor on a daily basis with updates on their Braxton Hicks and urine color. SoI could see why she would need the screening. But then yesterday I called to schedule my weekly ultrasounds (ugggh!) that I have to get every week at a specific location - just to make sure my uterus doesn't explode. Here’s my convo:
Me: “Hello ... (something nice) ... I need to schedule a weekly fetal monitoring ultrasound at X Hospital.”
Stupidhead: “Uh, do you even have a doctor’s order?”
Me: “Yes ... (pleasantry).”
Stupidhead: “Well, how about we try starting at the beginning, OK? Tell me your name so I can see if that’s true.”
Me: “Your Enemy.”
Stupidhead: “OK, well, I see you in our system, but ... what’s even wrong with you?”
Me: “I have 14 cysts and placenta previa and a knuckle sandwich waiting in a sack lunch for you.”
Stupidhead: “Well, I can send you to Y Hospital for that.”
Me: “The doctor specifically asked me to go to X Hospital so I could consult with a doctor every week instead of just an ultrasound tech.”
Stupidhead: “Well, how can I know that for sure?”
Me: “Prayer and fasting.”
... I could go on, but my memory faileth me, and I’m already bored with this post.
The point is – is someone out there really trying to sneak in weekly ultrasounds? I mean, what’s even the big thrill of an ultrasound? I like me an occasional peek at the baby, but most ultrasounds are like watching a Rorschach test on an old TV. For all I know, we could be studying a piece of cheese. And like I really want to spend the time and money to go every blasted week to a hospital 30 minutes from my house just because I want to see my baby!
Whew! I need a cold shower. This whole thing has me heated. I just feel like the whole medical world is conspiring against me. And reading my mail.
Aw man, I am one of those psycho pregnant women, aren’t I?
Crap.
