My OB was really cool, so cool that I continued to see him despite him moving 45 minutes away. I loved that he made me laugh and put me at ease whenever I had a concern. He possessed great drawing skills, because I am a visual person and needed illustrations to convey certain points. Yes, he had the power to draw a pretty good diagram of the female anatomy.
We laughed together when I learned I was pregnant, and we cried together when I miscarried. Okay, I'm stretching the truth a little - we didn't laugh and cry, but he was happy for me when I was pregnant (4 times) and sad for me when I miscarried (4 times).
But, like everything in life - all good things must come to an end at some point. More on that in a moment.
When pregnancy number 3 happened, he wanted to see me every week to see what was going on because there was a little spotting. I felt slightly uncomfortable because the words of my former (like eons ago - when I had my first two kids who are now awesome teenagers) Bradley teacher warned me that ultrasounds were not good. Granted, she didn't have concrete scientific articles that had been through a tough peer review process, but material instinct stretches beyond the realms of scientific testing. Even though I felt uncomfortable, I went with the ultra sounds. Eventually, at eight weeks the bean was not viable any more. The cells decided to stop contributing to the growth and apoptized. (I don't know if the last word is even a word, but the original word is: apoptosis.)
My OB/GYN was sad for me and told me that I need to start charting my temps. This way he could see what was going on. I also got several blood tests done to check out my hormone levels.
The level of coolness was at an all time high! He was rocking and rolling in my eyes. My doc was the shit.
Until, pregnancy number 4...
A few months later, I learned I was pregnant again. Yay! My husband and I were awash with excitement, but we kind of distanced ourselves until we knew everything was going to be in the clear. Two weeks later, I started spotting again. Our elation plummeted. My doc wanted me to come in right way, and I did because I have a history of ectopics. We did an ultrasound and there were two sacs - one ruptured and the other was intact.
Since the sacs were in the right place, I opted not to do any more ultrasounds. I felt in my bones that the ultrasound is what caused the cellular apoptosis. I just know it. However, I did one more after all the bleeding stopped. Only one sac survived and there was a heartbeat. I was content because the rest of the pregnancy was out of my hands. I had to believe.
My doc started scaring me. He wanted weekly ultrasounds. I said no. He wanted me to get the H1N1 vaccine which causes miscarriages. I said no. Several nurses in his office told me in confidence that the vaccination was a bad idea. I agreed. Yes, people have died from the virus, but people die from eating twinkies too. My placenta had calcification, meaning that my placenta was OLD! Are you serious? How could this be? As the weeks progressed, he treated me like I had a fatal disease. I felt like I had cooties and nothing could cure this horrible case of cootification. I felt yucky and cried every time I left his office. I had nightmares. What was supposed to be a magical time, turned into a nightmare of constant worrying and listening to his scary stories.
On the way home, I knew the baby was going to be fine. My gut was telling me that that the baby was going to be fine. The voice in my head was telling me that the baby was going to be fine. Damn it! The baby was going to be fine. I did not have a disease. The baby is not a disease. It's a baby that is growing inside of me. Pregnancy is a time to feel beautiful. It's a time to glow and to bask in the enjoyment of knowing that the human body can produce a miracle.
I know I had four miscarriages and he might have been extra cautious, but I knew he was going to be so cautious that he was going to go for a C-section. Sure enough, he started hinting at it. I explained to him that I delivered two children vaginally and drugfree. He looked at me like I was from outer space. Apparently, C-sections were standard operating procedures for him.
It was time for the pink slip…