Anger and Armor
Posted: Thu Feb 23, 2012 10:33 am
Note: This will be one of those (thankfully) occasional diatribes into some personal aspects of my life that I expect most don't want to know, or at the very least are not interested in. No offense if you don't feel like reading on, -R
"I'm PREGNANT!" she snapped, with an almost sarcastic, "I told you so" attitude to it.
"I fuckin' told you so!!!!" I yelled back, already starting to grin. I was standing in the parking lot at work, before dawn, arms full of crap I had brought home over the weekend, smart phone and it's damn slim design cocked between shoulder and ear at an uncomfortable angle.
Off the bat, this was not the cutesie first pregnancy of a couple. While no less awed at the creation of a child, it was layered and perhaps even tempered with the experience of the first one.
The hitch in her announcement was that only 2 weeks ago, she'd been confirmed by one of those pee-sticks as not pregnant. A quick run of the math meant she was only 2-3 weeks along, possibly even less depending on all types of bio chemistry that is far beyond most of us.
We decided to wait until a doctor's appointment to tell even our closest friends, and later in the morning I got a call back that we were seeing a different doctor's office than last time around on Friday, 5 whole days away.
We idled away those days, telling ourselves that it could be a false positive, but confirming our standing name choices. I posted a Herculean effort cleaning up the "junk room" until it could almost be believed that it had a potential to be a nursery.
Then came the doctor's office.
The midwife was pleasant, very supportive. Blood is drawn to confirm certain hormone levels, and then the long-awaited ultrasound. For anyone who's been through this, you know it's anti-climactic. Dark room, big screen, and everyone oohs-and-ahs at a black pixel on a shades-of-gray screen.
Except when they can't find the black pixel.
After several moments of probing around, the midwife stops, points to an area on the screen that is a shade darker than the rest. If you squint and have a Pope's faith, you can almost make out a concentric circle, and she tells us that *might* be something forming, but it's very possibly just too early to tell.
Now, as anyone who's ridden with me for a little spell will tell you, I can look at a hurricane on the radar and convince myself there's a dry spot just a few miles up.
So I figure, ok, there's something, and we are earlier than these people ever see, which is a slightly sunnier look than what she said, but pretty accurate. Tears are streaming down my wife's face already. I've known her since we were teenagers, and this is not new. She's a bit of a pessimist, and a clinical worrywart.
The midwife re-assures us, says to come back in a week, and we'll see something then. I drive my wife home in tears, re-iterating what the midwife said, assuring her that things are still moving along, and even speaking to her negativity in that it's far beyond our control, but we obviously areb't having any trouble getting pregnant if we need to try again. The next day we get a call that all her labs look great, she's as pregnant as they can tell by her blood.
A week goes by, I try to keep the baby-spirits up, with decent success. We go back in, ultrasound tech this time. She asks my wife the same string of questions. Both of us working in healthcare know the routine, but some of them are basic facts which should be on the chart, IE, last menstrual cycle(it's always been longer than most women). Hers was a while back, which, through the pseudo-science math of an OBGYN office put her at 10 weeks along. My wife politely explains, again, that that's incorrect, her cycle is long, we think we're about 3 weeks along now, maybe 4, possibly less. The tech does her looking, finds a fully formed and obvious sack, shows us, then we wait for the doctor.
The doctor comes in, saying she really wanted to see a yolk developing at this point, and there doesn't seem to be one. Again, tears, I'm a little preturbed now, but even the doctor says, it may just be too soon. Somewhere in the back of my head, I'm already evolving the seed of "so if it's too soon, why are you trying to set benchmarks?" But, she's the doc, she knows best.
A week later (same questions, the tears start streaming early, at the question about last cycle again), lo and behold, a yolk in the sac, but the doctor said she was hoping to see a heartbeat. This told by a midwife. The nurse and tech before her not even acknowledging that my wife is quietly sobbing during the standard questions (2nd time, same appointment, "wait, when was your last cycle again?") That little seed splits with "A HEARTBEAT?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! IT WAS AN EMPTY SACK 6 DAYS AGO!!!" This phrase tastes bitter, like a stale whiskey as I swallow it down, letting noone else hear it. She says to come back in 3 days.
3 days, many tears, and a few near-arguments about the competancy of this office later, my wife has to go in, by herself (I'm at work), and have a tech, again with the questions, tell her they're not sure what they see, MAYBE the fetus, but the doctor will call her later. My wife doesn't go back to work that day, just comes home, insists that I stay at work despite my many offers.
I come home in the morning, I'm starting to get angry. I explain my logic, that the office has stopped just short of admitting that it's too early for them to get a solid hold on the situation, and yet they're still throwing out benchmarks, WHICH THE BABY KEEPS HITTING, about 3 days after they say it should. It's not that I think the doctor is wrong, it's that she consistently overshoots what's happening, so she's just incompentant at adjusting to the situation. There's progress at every appointment, followed by my wife being emotionally cut off at the knees, and yeah, this shit is getting old.
The doctor calls later, and agrees, there's definately a fetus, but wants us back in 3 days to look for a heartbeat again.
Now, mind you heartbeat or not, fetus or not, there's nothing that could be done anyway if this thing isn't going to make it. It will miscarry, my wife will have a heavy period at some point, and we'll be back to square one. There won't be extraordinary measures, no medal-winning performance by the doctor and her office. Just a "better luck next time!" and a pat on the back.
Which, oddly enough, I'm ok with. I have faith in both a higher power and millions of years of evolution kinda making sure our bodies do what's right. My wife and I talk about it frequently, and she's mostly on the same page. It's the drawing out, the constant disappointment the doctor is offeringg that has me on the verge of a full-blown rage.
I'm going back in a few hours. The doctor says we'll know for sure this time. I fucking hate her for even trying to sound so sure. She's a lying bitch who's out of her depth and her profession gives her too much of a God complex to admit it. I think I'll actually hate her a little more if the heart is beating away and perfectly healthy. I don't think I'm even going too far to wonder if the constant stress she's causing on my wife is more hurtful to a baby that's too small to help in any way now, other than to say give it time to grow.
MY wife has asked, implored, and nearly warned me to keep my mouth shut during the appointments. I'm doing better than she knows. I don't want to cause her more anxiety at just how pissed off I am, but I've made it clear I don't appreciate how they're handling this.
I couldn't explain why at first, but I just had this urge to wear my riding jacket to today's appointment (I usually scoff at the guys walking around the mall in the winter wearing their flashy riding coats. I mean, come on, it's not like you rode anywhere in Chicago in February). Mine in particular will make me look like an extra from an 80's film. So I started to probe this idea, why my jacket became some kind of security blanket.
Our armor is, at it's simplest, a hopefully effective shield against death. Let's face it, 70-100 mph about 24" off the pavement and then leaning into a turn; that's sure and complete death, if not for the fortunate confluence of engineering, gear, skill, and maybe more luck than we like to admit sometimes. And when all these fail, a final line of defense, synthetic or leather, is our armor.
So I've been kicking that around for a few days. Am I defending myself from Death, my unborn child? Will it be Death in the room while they look, yet again, for a heartbeat?
But it also goes further. I think of my work gear, that not only keeps a hostile environment out, but keeps me encapsulated in a survivable environment. The thing is, after a time, even the fully encapsulated body will start to poison itself. Your body creates it's own heat, sweat, toxins, that want and need to be vented.
No matter how much you love your gear in a hard lean, you can't wait to toss it at the next stop, just to get fresh air, cool off, not feel so bound.
I'm not wearing it just to keep the doctor's ill-founded opinions out. Maybe I'm wearing armor to help keep myself in...
-Rench
"I'm PREGNANT!" she snapped, with an almost sarcastic, "I told you so" attitude to it.
"I fuckin' told you so!!!!" I yelled back, already starting to grin. I was standing in the parking lot at work, before dawn, arms full of crap I had brought home over the weekend, smart phone and it's damn slim design cocked between shoulder and ear at an uncomfortable angle.
Off the bat, this was not the cutesie first pregnancy of a couple. While no less awed at the creation of a child, it was layered and perhaps even tempered with the experience of the first one.
The hitch in her announcement was that only 2 weeks ago, she'd been confirmed by one of those pee-sticks as not pregnant. A quick run of the math meant she was only 2-3 weeks along, possibly even less depending on all types of bio chemistry that is far beyond most of us.
We decided to wait until a doctor's appointment to tell even our closest friends, and later in the morning I got a call back that we were seeing a different doctor's office than last time around on Friday, 5 whole days away.
We idled away those days, telling ourselves that it could be a false positive, but confirming our standing name choices. I posted a Herculean effort cleaning up the "junk room" until it could almost be believed that it had a potential to be a nursery.
Then came the doctor's office.
The midwife was pleasant, very supportive. Blood is drawn to confirm certain hormone levels, and then the long-awaited ultrasound. For anyone who's been through this, you know it's anti-climactic. Dark room, big screen, and everyone oohs-and-ahs at a black pixel on a shades-of-gray screen.
Except when they can't find the black pixel.
After several moments of probing around, the midwife stops, points to an area on the screen that is a shade darker than the rest. If you squint and have a Pope's faith, you can almost make out a concentric circle, and she tells us that *might* be something forming, but it's very possibly just too early to tell.
Now, as anyone who's ridden with me for a little spell will tell you, I can look at a hurricane on the radar and convince myself there's a dry spot just a few miles up.
So I figure, ok, there's something, and we are earlier than these people ever see, which is a slightly sunnier look than what she said, but pretty accurate. Tears are streaming down my wife's face already. I've known her since we were teenagers, and this is not new. She's a bit of a pessimist, and a clinical worrywart.
The midwife re-assures us, says to come back in a week, and we'll see something then. I drive my wife home in tears, re-iterating what the midwife said, assuring her that things are still moving along, and even speaking to her negativity in that it's far beyond our control, but we obviously areb't having any trouble getting pregnant if we need to try again. The next day we get a call that all her labs look great, she's as pregnant as they can tell by her blood.
A week goes by, I try to keep the baby-spirits up, with decent success. We go back in, ultrasound tech this time. She asks my wife the same string of questions. Both of us working in healthcare know the routine, but some of them are basic facts which should be on the chart, IE, last menstrual cycle(it's always been longer than most women). Hers was a while back, which, through the pseudo-science math of an OBGYN office put her at 10 weeks along. My wife politely explains, again, that that's incorrect, her cycle is long, we think we're about 3 weeks along now, maybe 4, possibly less. The tech does her looking, finds a fully formed and obvious sack, shows us, then we wait for the doctor.
The doctor comes in, saying she really wanted to see a yolk developing at this point, and there doesn't seem to be one. Again, tears, I'm a little preturbed now, but even the doctor says, it may just be too soon. Somewhere in the back of my head, I'm already evolving the seed of "so if it's too soon, why are you trying to set benchmarks?" But, she's the doc, she knows best.
A week later (same questions, the tears start streaming early, at the question about last cycle again), lo and behold, a yolk in the sac, but the doctor said she was hoping to see a heartbeat. This told by a midwife. The nurse and tech before her not even acknowledging that my wife is quietly sobbing during the standard questions (2nd time, same appointment, "wait, when was your last cycle again?") That little seed splits with "A HEARTBEAT?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! IT WAS AN EMPTY SACK 6 DAYS AGO!!!" This phrase tastes bitter, like a stale whiskey as I swallow it down, letting noone else hear it. She says to come back in 3 days.
3 days, many tears, and a few near-arguments about the competancy of this office later, my wife has to go in, by herself (I'm at work), and have a tech, again with the questions, tell her they're not sure what they see, MAYBE the fetus, but the doctor will call her later. My wife doesn't go back to work that day, just comes home, insists that I stay at work despite my many offers.
I come home in the morning, I'm starting to get angry. I explain my logic, that the office has stopped just short of admitting that it's too early for them to get a solid hold on the situation, and yet they're still throwing out benchmarks, WHICH THE BABY KEEPS HITTING, about 3 days after they say it should. It's not that I think the doctor is wrong, it's that she consistently overshoots what's happening, so she's just incompentant at adjusting to the situation. There's progress at every appointment, followed by my wife being emotionally cut off at the knees, and yeah, this shit is getting old.
The doctor calls later, and agrees, there's definately a fetus, but wants us back in 3 days to look for a heartbeat again.
Now, mind you heartbeat or not, fetus or not, there's nothing that could be done anyway if this thing isn't going to make it. It will miscarry, my wife will have a heavy period at some point, and we'll be back to square one. There won't be extraordinary measures, no medal-winning performance by the doctor and her office. Just a "better luck next time!" and a pat on the back.
Which, oddly enough, I'm ok with. I have faith in both a higher power and millions of years of evolution kinda making sure our bodies do what's right. My wife and I talk about it frequently, and she's mostly on the same page. It's the drawing out, the constant disappointment the doctor is offeringg that has me on the verge of a full-blown rage.
I'm going back in a few hours. The doctor says we'll know for sure this time. I fucking hate her for even trying to sound so sure. She's a lying bitch who's out of her depth and her profession gives her too much of a God complex to admit it. I think I'll actually hate her a little more if the heart is beating away and perfectly healthy. I don't think I'm even going too far to wonder if the constant stress she's causing on my wife is more hurtful to a baby that's too small to help in any way now, other than to say give it time to grow.
MY wife has asked, implored, and nearly warned me to keep my mouth shut during the appointments. I'm doing better than she knows. I don't want to cause her more anxiety at just how pissed off I am, but I've made it clear I don't appreciate how they're handling this.
I couldn't explain why at first, but I just had this urge to wear my riding jacket to today's appointment (I usually scoff at the guys walking around the mall in the winter wearing their flashy riding coats. I mean, come on, it's not like you rode anywhere in Chicago in February). Mine in particular will make me look like an extra from an 80's film. So I started to probe this idea, why my jacket became some kind of security blanket.
Our armor is, at it's simplest, a hopefully effective shield against death. Let's face it, 70-100 mph about 24" off the pavement and then leaning into a turn; that's sure and complete death, if not for the fortunate confluence of engineering, gear, skill, and maybe more luck than we like to admit sometimes. And when all these fail, a final line of defense, synthetic or leather, is our armor.
So I've been kicking that around for a few days. Am I defending myself from Death, my unborn child? Will it be Death in the room while they look, yet again, for a heartbeat?
But it also goes further. I think of my work gear, that not only keeps a hostile environment out, but keeps me encapsulated in a survivable environment. The thing is, after a time, even the fully encapsulated body will start to poison itself. Your body creates it's own heat, sweat, toxins, that want and need to be vented.
No matter how much you love your gear in a hard lean, you can't wait to toss it at the next stop, just to get fresh air, cool off, not feel so bound.
I'm not wearing it just to keep the doctor's ill-founded opinions out. Maybe I'm wearing armor to help keep myself in...
-Rench
