It’s raining.
Not just a light sprinkle either. The downpour means that the slow casual setting on my windshield wipers isn’t cutting it. I have to use the annoying speed setting. At least the sound of the rain is drowning out the squeaking. That, or there’s so much rain the wipers aren’t squeaking. Who knows.
The rain wasn’t this bad when I left. Then, it had been light enough that my husband had carried the car seat out to the car for me.
“Thanks.” I had thanked him. “I probably would have wet myself if I had carried it out,” I had tried to joke (but had been completely serious).
“Wet yourself?” He obviously had been confused at my attempt at humor. Oh that’s right. The presence of his Y chromosome means that he will never experience the joy of a human passing through your body and the loss of bladder control that follows. Nor, being the hygienic and private person my husband is, would he really want to hear about anyone else having any sort of issue like that.
Oh well. “Yes, wet myself.” I had confirmed, and then climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door before I could further embarrass myself.
The baby and I were headed to the pediatrician to do the tests that my midwife hadn’t done. Which, considering that this midwife was even more hands-off than the average midwife, meant needing pretty much everything. A hearing test and the PKU was the short list of things I planned to have done. I assumed there would be no reason I couldn’t get those done today. I assumed incorrectly.
Because of the illness I had sustained immediately previous to my birth (which had partially contributed to my subsequently giving birth 10 days after my “due” date - honestly, next time I’m giving people my 42 week date as my due date, that more accurately fits the definition of that word), I wasn’t allowed to enter the building through the main entrance and had to call to have them let me in through the side.
They had said something about calling the appointment line. I had hoped there would be a sign posted with the number to call, but no such luck. So I try to look up the number and dial.
The first number I try, the lady asks who I was trying to see. I couldn’t remember the doctor’s name, and she transferred my call. That took me to the line for the office at their other location (according to the listen-while-you-wait recording) and I hung up before anyone answered. Returning to my google search I saw I hadn’t been specific enough. Adding my location, I started the process all over again. This time when they answer, we got as far as me asking if this was the right number, when my cheek decided to press the FaceTime button on my phone, which disconnected the call.
I’m so done with this visit and I haven’t even gotten inside.
For the third time I call and finally end the conversation with directions for heading inside.
Mind you, it’s still raining (not too bad at this point), and I try to decide the best way to go in. I’m averse to carrying car seats even when I have bladder control, so I go to the side and get the baby out of her seat. Not having a better place to be, I bring her back to the driver’s seat to sit while we wait for the nurse to let us in. I sit there trying to decide if I should try to move to the passenger side so I don’t look as suspicious when the nurse finally calls us in. The rain decides at this exact moment to fall harder and without another option I throw a blanket over the baby’s head and hurry inside. She lets me know she is less than thrilled about this.
Once inside I remove the blanket and follow the nurse to the examination room. In there the nurse asks if I brought any papers.
“Papers?” I repeat, giving her a confused look.
“Yeah, papers, you know, with information about the height and weight, and other things,” she describes, as though that should clear everything up.
“No, I don’t have papers.”
“You had a homebirth?” She questions. That would explain my lack of documentation.
“Yes, I had a homebirth.”
“And did your midwife write anything down…”
“Well, yeah, but I didn’t bring it.”
“Do you know the baby’s birth weight?”
“Yes.” I give it to her.
“Okay. Strip her down and the doctor will be right in.”
Sheesh. Ain’t nothing like going against the grain to make medical professionals treat you like you’re some other species. The doctor, on the other hand, is completely flustered and doesn’t know what to do with me when she enters the room.
“So, uh, you, uh, you saw a midwife throughout your pregnancy?”
“Yes.” Technically no, but no need to make this lady worry more than she already was.
“Okay. Um. There’s, uh, there’s testing they regularly do in pregnancy, so did you have any of that done?”
“Well yes, but that wasn’t with my midwife. I had bloodwork done and the group b strep test.”
It continues like this with her awkwardly asking about my prior care as though afraid I had and would refuse every sort of procedure, exhibiting evident relief for the things I confirmed having done. This included newborn procedures for the baby, which brought us to the whole reason for being here.
“So the PKU test is normally done at the hospital, so we don’t have the test papers here. And hearing tests they do next door at ENT so we’ll schedule something for you over there.”
Great. So the whole reason we came isn’t even getting accomplished today. To make matters worse, this whole time a nurse who didn’t know what she was doing was trying to get a pulse on my baby with these fancy probes.
“Hmm, see this one’s going but I can’t get this one to go….” (The doctor comes over and corrects her placement: “You’ve gotta put one on the front of the hand and one on the back, and same with the foot.”) “This one says 97, but the other says 76…. Oh, this one was taking a reading of your bouncing, you’ll have to hold the baby still…. The battery’s dying on this one, we’ll have to grab a new one….”
And then they had to do the whole process all over again when they realized they had put the reader on the wrong hand. With more troubleshooting and more batteries dying. The whole thing is ridiculous, obviously my child has a healthy pulse and oxygen levels - you can tell that just by looking at her.
And herein lies just one of the problems I have with modern medicine - that they’re so focused on all their fancy machines and technology that they’re losing the skills of diagnosing a person based on looking at them. You see it in labor and maternity wards. Instead of nurses being hands on and observing mothers, they sit behind screens watching the baby’s pulse and mother's contractions, which doesn’t actually help move baby along, nor has it proven to improve outcomes for mothers and babies. That versus a doula or midwife, who watches a mother and can take note of when it might be helpful to try a new position or comfort technique, or even if the mother needs to stop to rest or eat. None of that comes by watching a screen.
The doctor finally gets a pulse reading that is to her satisfaction, and she completes the rest of the examination. They point out that my baby’s weight is one ounce higher than her birth weight, which seems off to them because babies typically lose weight before beginning to gain again after mom’s milk comes in. They even go as far as to suggest that the midwife’s scale was “different.” Whatever. Just get me out of here.
“The last thing we need is for you to fill out this release form so we can get that information from your OBGYN about your test results.” Even though I had assured them that all my test results were fine, they still want to see for themselves. Fine. Have my records. Just let me leave.
They leave me while I get the paperwork filled out. It is during one of these periods when they’ve left me that I take notice of the decor in the exam room. Having only been a boy mom up to this point, I’ve seen rooms with Toy Story, Finding Nemo, Cars, and presumably other “boyish” content. Why presumably? I’d never had reason to believe it was boy-specific until I realized the room I was in had princess stickers. Now that I had a girl, I was to be exposed to the feminine version of exam rooms, which was something I had never even known existed before. For some reason this adds a bad taste to what is already a foul experience.
They come get my paperwork and I can finally leave, and I hurriedly exit the building. Thankfully baby got to nurse while I had filled out the paperwork, so she went in her seat without a problem. My pelvic floor, on the other hand, was another issue entirely. I ease myself into my seat without leaking too much and drive home.
The rain had been light when leaving the building, but steadily got heavier and heavier, until it reached my earlier description of requiring the fast setting on my wipers. As I pull down the driveway, it increases to a furor that none dare enter. None except my children, who apparently can’t wait to see me, and all come running out to meet me.
“Go get my raincoat,” I tell them. I may as well make use of them. While they fetch that, I obsessively attempt to dry off the inside of my door that got wet from the giving of instructions and then head to the back to go out the side door. This movement tests my pelvic floor again, which begins to give out.
“Here, Mom.” They pass my coat through the side door, which I slide on and then grab my purse to jump out. There is a literal flood outside this door, and I step in water past my ankles to get out of the van. I hurry to the other side to get the baby seat. As much as I hate doing it, I know carrying her seat in is the best option right now.
My pelvic floor, pushed to the limit, can last no longer. As I pull her seat out my bladder empties, filling my disposable underwear with one liquid while the rain drenches me with another. I hurry in with the kids and we bring our soaking selves inside.
My displeasure is unmatched. Not only did I not accomplish what I left to do today, but I had to plod through a rainstorm for no good reason. I wasted my time, got soaked in the rain, and suffered the indignity of urinating myself.
And I still have to go in again to actually get those things done.
Someday medical care won’t cause such a visceral reaction in me.
Maybe.
