Doctors: A Special Place in Hell

It's quickly becoming painfully obvious to me that doctors will be by far my least source of information in this little preggo project.

The doctor, "my" doctor, the ob I was just shuffled off to by my gyn, says all the politically safe things. The things she is supposed to say. I had made the plea to meet her and ask her my questions while still clothed, and, while somehow viewed as an unusual request by office staff and doctor alike, I won. Now we sat face to face in a little room, me volleying the few thoughts I'd managed to collect at this woman not terribly older than me (who, incidentally, has no children), occasionally referring to the crumpled scrap of paper in my hand - a list of my queries, with her answering in sterile and predictable tones. My questions included things of no small consequence like her philosophy on cesareans and the alarming rate of surgical births in the US or my fear of postpartum depression. Her answers included phrases like "the heath of the baby," "everything possible," "support you."

She bored me with a by now obvious list of what to do to combat the nausea that I am essentially over anyway. "Thanks," I told her when she'd finished. "I'm 12 weeks, though. I've got that stuff covered."

Then the exam. While she felt my breasts she wanted to know what I did for a living. While she dug for cultures the questions were about how long I'd lived in the area. I matched her question for question, just without physically invading her private parts.

The last part of the exam was when she smooshed blue gel on my belly and listened for the baby's heartbeat. "It sounds like a choo-choo train," I concluded. She gave me a small, patronizing smile. "I like to think of it as horses galloping," she said. Horses galloping?!? It was clearly a choo-choo. Doctors cannot be trusted.

On leaving Dr Dull (not her real name, although you'd think...), she asked as an afterthought about whether I needed prenatal vitamins. I told her I'd chucked 'em with my other doctor's approval because they made me completely sick. I was taking folic acid. "I recommend many of my patients to take Flintstones with iron." The receptionist piped up immediately, "I take one with my kids every night!" Flintstones chewables. We were finally getting somewhere.