Misadventures in Health Care

Once upon a time, I had a blog.

I had a blog, and I wrote on the blog, and then I stopped.  I might talk about the writing and the stopping later, or I may not, depending on the weather and how I feel.

Now, however, I am back to feeling the writing bug, and if the interwebs are good for nothing else, they are good for allowing–nay, encouraging–the uninformed babbling of the masses.

Indulge me, if you will in a quick disclaimer: The author of this blog is currently knocked-up.  She is likely to talk about that fact a great deal because it is one of the weirdest fucking things she’s ever been through.  While she is happy to be “in a family way,” she is not a goddamn glitter shitting unicorn about it, so if you’re looking for glitter shitting, you would be well-served to click on down the line.  Further, any pro-pregnancy statements she makes are her opinion for her and other people who, themselves, are pro-being-pregnant.  Nothing should be construed as advocacy for wholesale universal parenthood, as some people do not choose to have children, and the author is totally pro-childfree-by-choice, too.  If you want to act like a fucker about it, please do so elsewhere.

Right.  Okay.  Glad that’s out of the way.

Right now I’m about 16 weeks and 1 day pregnant, which puts me at about 4 months, or comfortably in the second trimester.  If you feel left out because you’ve not heard the blow-by-blow of trimester one, allow me to sum it up for you: it fucking sucked.  While I was not encumbered by actually vomiting, I experienced all-day wholesale nausea and unending, unremitting fatigue.  That was a magical, magical time indeed.

Trimester 2, though, is eminently more doable.  I now have a tiny pregnant belly, which really could pass for a hardcore cake affection, but *I* know it’s baby, so whatever.  Sure, my enormous rack is likely to be blamed for gravitational disturbances that have caused all the recent earthquakes, and likely that volcano thing, too, but what I’ve made peace with my boobs and the contraption designed by a statics engineer that now girds them in place.

What I am not at peace with, though, are doctors.  In fact, I’ve been through two, and at this point I’m strongly considering my friend’s offer to give birth in her dining room.  Right now it seems the most reasonable option currently on the table (pun unintentional, but I did choose to embrace it when I recognized it).

Disclaimer.2: The author of this blog has ideas about her labor and birth experience. HERS.  She does not have any ideas about anyone else’s, really, except that she wishes everyone very well in getting as close to what she wants as possible.  The author recognizes that she is a first-time mother, and that all her high falutin ideas may, when push comes to shove, take a big swish down the American Standard of Life.  When that happens, she will own it, or she will lie about it on the interwebs like a bitch, because she can.  Again, if you don’t like it, please to get to clickin’ and don’t be a fucker about it.

Yesterday, I met with my second doctor, who came highly recommended by a friend who had a baby recently.  While the meeting started well, I think it safe to say that by that time it was all said and done we had achieved a state of mutual antipathy and disdain. Also, I wanted to punch him in the dick.

Allow me to rephrase–I still want to punch him in the dick.

It was a terrible experience, filled with condescending paternalistic bullshit that I need like a vestigial tail.  He had no idea about the kind of birth experience I might have been looking for because once I brought up the idea of a birth plan, he began telling about the birth experience he expected me to have.  When THAT did not achieve the desired effect, which I guess was wide-eyed gratefulness to him for sharing his immense wisdom, he went ahead and trotted out the anecdotes intended to frighten me–and my husband, who was at the appointment with me.

As this man went on and on about what I could expect, and what I should expect and accept, the hormone cocktail that I’ve been imbibing for the past 14 weeks or so kicked in, and I began to cry.  Great, humiliating, gulping sobs.

Pro-tip: when you have antagonized a woman to tears, especially a pregnant woman, do not ask “Why are you crying?”  It only makes you sound like an epic, epic fucking asshole.

I of course could not articulate an answer at that point.  Nor, frankly, did Dr. Kingshit actually deserve one.  However, I’ve got one now.

I’m crying out of fucking fear.  I’m 16 weeks pregnant, and I’m not insane, and my wishes are not unreasonable, and people like you fill me with fight-or-flight fear.  It is not beyond the fucking pale that I want to be an active participant in the birth of the thing that I’ve built from goddamn scratch and carried around for 40-ish weeks.  It is not unreasonable to expect that you will talk to me like an adult, and respect my wishes, and find out what I want before telling ME what YOU want.  I’m looking for a healthcare provider, not a fucking dad.

Screw. That. Noise.

So, the great quest for a healthcare provider without unresolved issues about the high school girlfriend who dumped his sorry ass continues.  I may still wind up with the kind of birth Dr. Kingshit had in mind for me, but I won’t be getting it from him.  I’ll go to the damn free clinic and then let a resident deliver me, first.