Thursday, December 08, 2011

Not Quite What I Expected From an Obstetrician

I love my OB. LOVE HER. I loved her even before she donned her hazmat suit and full-on plexiglass face shield (Things They Don’t Tell You About Pregnancy #157, 983) and delivered my first baby and then sewed me up as good as new—so good, in fact, that the nurse practitioner who removed my IUD declared that it looked like I’d never had a baby—which is, of course, the nicest compliment you can give a post-partum vagina.

She’s perfectly professional while simultaneously making me feel like if we’d met in a coffee shop instead of her clinic we’d be best friends (a girl can wish); she soothes my anxieties without indulging them; she makes it seem reasonable to want an epidural and a lovely, midwife-approved soak in a hot tub; she went to Harvard Medical School and remains current on all the latest research and she’s super approachable in an ever-so-slightly frazzled way that I find endearing. She’s like a sweet, nurturing, no-nonsense midwife who can expertly manage the most extremely risky/dangerous/complicated pregnancy without batting an eyelid.

Oh, the number of times I’ve wished she could be my doctor for everything, not just my lady business. (Today, in fact, I made this wish come ever-so-slightly true when I told her about some dizzy spells I’ve been having that I was pretty sure weren’t pregnancy related, but you never can be sure, right? Her diagnosis: an otherwise asymptomatic inner-ear bug that’s been running the viral circuit lately and that she currently has, too. See? We should be best friends!)

Given my last post, you can imagine how much my love skyrocketed this morning when my OB told me that if my prenatal vitamins were giving me trouble, I should STOP TAKING THEM. What kind of doctor says that? The incredibly awesome kind, that’s who. Apparently I can just take some easy-on-the-stomach folic acid and call it a day.

Well, not quite, I still have to take iron because I’m one of those women who tend toward the anemic even when not growing a fellow being who sucks half your blood from your body for their own selfish purposes—but she and I agreed that if I took the iron with a snack right before bed, I might not even notice the indigestion. She also praised me for “experimenting with" (i.e. "neglecting to take for the past week") the vitamins to sort out the indigestion situation. I love being pregnant the second time! It’s like being a pro!

Did I just say I love being pregnant? To clarify, I do not. It’s just not quite as horrible this time around. Which apparently means I’m having a boy. Because, as everyone knows, boys are easier—at least once they’ve outgrown the stage of getting into everything and before they enter the stage of never calling or writing or sending a card on Mother’s Day.

photo courtesy jeltovski, morgueFile

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