Return to Department 390
Warning: This post may contain a dose of TMI for the feint of heart. I had tiny twins. I have no modesty left. Read at your own risk.
I had a doctor’s appointment last week. I was drug seeking. The time had come to seek birth control.
(Surprisingly enough, not for controlling prospective births. It has other medicinal properties. Like helping to manage polycystic ovarian syndrome.)
Wandering down the corridor toward the female-oriented departments, I looked across the overpass – connecting the “clinic” to the “hospital” (despite this all being one large building) – and there loomed the well-worn path to the NICU. I turned back to Department 390, “Women’s Heath” screamed at me from the wall.
I had not been on the third floor since the great pregnancy debacle of 2010. And it was proving harder on my psyche than I expected.
I stood on the little rubber feet telling me to “TO PROTECT PATIENT PRIVACY, PLEASE STAND BACK.” The very pregnant woman in front of me was commiserating with the receptionist.
“Ugh. I’m so ready to be done with this part. Haha. I can’t believe there’s still two more months. I would not be sad if he just came now.”
Bitch, please. You have no idea.
My turn! Haven’t been seen in over a year? Fill out Form A. Here for birth control? Fill out Form B. Thank you, here’s your paperwork. I picked up the pile. At the bottom was a brochure featuring a brightly colored baby in utero. “Your Baby’s Development! 28-32 Weeks!”
I don’t think that was meant for me. See, I never got that brochure. I never needed it. I took a deep breath and began answering the probing questions.
Have you ever become pregnant while using any means of family planning?
Well when you phrase it that way – sure. It involved serious quantities of fertility drugs.
How many pregnancies have you had?
How many deliveries have you had?
How many living children do you have?
How many abortions/miscarriages have you had?
Umm…two and a half?
The medical assistant came to claim me. Stand on the scale. Sit in the chair. And the blood pressure gauge began squeezing the life out of me. I. Hate. Measuring. Blood pressure. Hate. Hate. Hate. I’d just come from the lab where blood was stolen from me via a stabby needle. I do believe I prefer the bloodletting to that confounded blood pressure cuff.
As such, I mentioned my blood pressure may be higher than normal. She took that as a suggestion to take my blood pressure again. So that sucked.
Into the little room. When was my last period? Can’t remember – 2-3 months ago? (Sheesh – that’s why I’m here people.)
The medical assistant’s eyes lit up. “We need to do a pregnancy test!”
“I’m not pregnant.”
“But you could be!”
“No. I couldn’t be. Not. Pregnant.”
We did a pregnancy test. It was negative. I gave her my shocked face. I think she seemed a little sad.
Finally my doctor arrived. She greeted me and asked how the muppets were doing. It occurred to me how odd it felt to be fully clothed in such an exam room.
Three minutes later, she’d handed me a scrip, wished me and my sons well, and said she hoped this meant she’d never see me in the hospital because my insides had exploded. (Happy PCOS awareness month, folks.)
And after all that – the blood work came back to say *I’m* the one with the high blood sugar? I need a cookie.
And to never go back there.