On Wednesday I went in for a checkup, you know, one more of those doctor visits that pregnancy demands. I sang to my son in the shower, a little ditty about how much Mama doesn't like going to the doctor, how it just really sucks, but I do it because I love him. A small rebellious part of me wishes I could be totally granola about this pregnancy and have a gorgeous dreadlocked doula (oh! if only Teri were closer! even though she doesn't have dreadlocks) and tell all this Western medicine to kiss my beautiful pregnant booty. And their dratted insurance companies, oh they could kiss my swollen feet. But - I don't want to take chances, not this first time - but my second pregnancy may be very different, mark my words.
Everything went beautifully - I finally got to meet my doctor, who is adorable and kind and gentle. He may not be my doctor for long, due to ever evolving changes in my medical care, presided over by those fickle insurance gods, but that's okay at this point - at least I had a great experience and felt like he took time to listen to my questions and thoughts. Male doctors always make me a little nervous, if only because the majority of ones I've encountered (as a patient) act like total know it all asses. Dr. Wonderful is nothing like that - if you breathe his name to any woman in our town, they spasm into run on sentences..."soooooooosweetsonicesolaidback..." Added bonus: he is a church member, but not one I see very regularly, so I don't have to look out into the congregation and feel embarrassed that oh my Lord, there is someone in the sanctuary who has seen my boobs. Someone besides my husband, of course.
But can I just say? Grumpy nurses really can make or break your visit. It wasn't even very early in the morning - I understand a little grumpiness in the mornings, before the coffee or Diet Coke kicks in - but you know, being friendly goes a long way with a nervous pregnant woman. I do understand that everyone has a bad day, but looking at me like I'm stupid? Not cool. Especially as it was my first time to that clinic, and hello nobody told me about the sugar test rules! When you're in between places, this sort of stuff happens. But the look she gave me when I said, YES, I'd eaten something that day, and had coffee - you would think that I had ruined her life, and she just couldn't go on, not with idiotic pregnant women like me waddling around.
So, that's how I ended up back in a waiting room this morning, nervously clutching my book - The Kite Runner, which YES, really is as good as everyone says it is, and it feels like forever where I read a book that good - and chanting positive thoughts. "I can do this," I repeated over and over. I watched another pregnant woman chug her cup of syrup, and took hope, even though I cannot chug, no not even alcohol. I have to sip shots, I am that much of a loser.
When it was finally my turn, the first sip wasn't so bad, but about the third sip I thought, "This is the meanest thing to do to ANYONE." I pretended it was the end of a really sweet sno-cone, to make it more bearable, even though who I am kidding? No way would I drink that. About midway through I got choked and couldn't breathe, and there I was wheezing for air and gagging and thought I was going to vomit for the whole waiting room to see. AND NOBODY CARED. No one even looked at me, and so I struggled through the last bit, with no sympathy from this room full of heartless people waiting for their own chance to swig syrup or give blood or whatever else they can do to you in a lab.
An hour later I offered up my arm to the lady with all the needles, and let her vampire self take her three vials of blood. Now I'm praying fervently that all will be well, because the second test for gestational diabetes is even longer and you have to drink MORE of that awful syrup. Also, I gave up chocolate ALL DAY yesterday and I'm sorry, I don't think I can do it for ten more weeks. It would be just be too cruel to ask of anyone.
But now it's all over and the rest of the day is nothing but FUN: painting pottery with all the bridesmaids (and best of all, the Green Bean Kid, who I have been missing dreadfully and am in a desperate deficit of all her charm and darlingness) and finding a new dress for the rehearsal dinner, with the help of a very wiggly three year old, of course. There are fresh batteries in my camera for all the pictures I'm itching to take, and I promise to consent to share all the Oscarly glory of my bridesmaid dress. I've also been busy compiling a playlist for Sir Baby, a collection of manly, completely awesome music: Stevie Ray Vaughan, Michael Hedges, Johnny Cash, Rich Mullins, The Beatles. We will also will have some Pink Floyd, but Husband has to pick out the less creepy songs. If you have any suggestions - nothing too scary or jarring - please leave your suggestions in the comments, thanks!
Also, if you get the chance, please go visit my darling Carrie Bell and leave her some love - she is the bravest, strongest woman these days and just really being a trouper. My heart hurts when I know she is hurting, and I just wish that loving your friend could make the hard days a little easier in some tangible way. Like, if all the love I send her way could manifest itself in chocolate, or maybe Cheetos. Or roses blooming down the walls of her house. A girl can dream, right?