Throwing Fluffy Words Around With Reckless Abandon

I just read a list of things that allegedly happen after you have a baby.  They’re all smarmy crap and they pissed me off a bit, so here I am, writing my rant.

There’s a rather significantly sized part of my inner self that truly (I always spell that wrong the first try) and deeply (and yes, madly) wishes there was a corporeal representation of pop-culture and all its propaganda that I could see in person and punch in the face.  Society, as a whole, has so much to answer for by way of destroying the environment – both physical, but also spiritual and whatever the all-encompassing word for feelings and mental state smushed together would be – that I find myself increasingly incensed by whatever the latest spout of nonsense is spewing forth not only on the fully formed, but on the emerging youth of this world.  I recognize that the whole is made up of parts, but some of those parts..and it’s always the most obnoxious and unbalanced that banshee scream the loudest…really are screwing us all over.  Generally I like to warm up to loaded statements, but again…pissed off.

Tonight, it’s the crap that’s being presented to women bearing children.  The fact that there are at least four television shows to my knowledge, and quite likely more that aren’t quite so prominent, glorifying teen pregnancy is appalling to me.  Sure, they show the turmoil these girls go through, but they also glorify the drama by giving it mass quantities of attention – something every teenager I’ve ever met has begged for in one way or another.  With the older crowd, there is such emphasis on this tiny bundle of baby that women are kind of subtly encouraged to forget the dude that helped them procreate in the first place and focus their entire being on their spawn.  Again…loaded statement…but I just read a list of “42 things you discover about life after having a baby” (with an added 1400+ comments that I have no patience to wade through) and not a single one mentioned the father of said child.  Oh, and my favorite…ready?!

“You now know where the sun comes from.”

Please.  Tell.  Me.  You’re.  Joking.

Alright, yes, I know that children are important and cute and lovely and should absolutely be cherished for the blessing they are.

Yes.

BUT.

THE SUN?  Really?  I’m pretty sure that the sun is a star burning pretty brightly from about 149.6 million kilometers away.  I even looked it up on Wikipedia to make sure, and we all know that Wikipedia makes everything legit.

My point, when it comes to the children thing, is that I can’t be the only mother out there who loves their child but a. still loves their husband more, and b. isn’t going to wax fuzzy googly-eyed nonsense about every little giggle and fart produced by said baby.  (or husband).  Society as a whole has romanticized many things, and motherhood has absolutely fallen victim to this trend.  Teen Mom.  16 And Pregnant.  Secret Life Of The American Teenager.  A Baby Story.  Bringing Home Baby.  Baby’s First Day.  Pregnant In Heels.  I’d love to think that some of these were birthed (PUN!) with the hope of helping someone out there who’s going through the same thing.  I’d love to think that.  Sadly, I think that’s delusional.  On top of them, you have the endless supply of fluffy baby and parenting websites (and their abundance of…informative?…email bulletins) that paint a picture that, to date, has offered few shreds of applicable reality.

At the end of the day these all do a disservice to the average woman who is able and willing to conceive a child.  For those who don’t have a baby, television glamorizes the feat in such a way that I would openly laugh at it if it weren’t for the impending children’s lives at stake here.  It’s almost like a game – something to be giggled about.  Joked about.  Flaunted, even.  It’s as if they’re focused on the matching onesies and baby showers that they’ve lost sight that the cute creature in question is a life long commitment.  It’s a life – a moldable, fragile, and completely helpless life that is at the mercy of whoever’s uterus it happens to fall out of.  As for the women who either are pregnant or who have given birth, the vast majority of information goes quite a few steps beyond appropriately positive and becomes nauseatingly gushy, and in my experience complete nonsense.  They go to such an extreme that they ostracize those of us who don’t fall on drastic ends of the spectrum – we’re neither bat shit insane for flocculent (probably incorrectly used because I ran out of synonyms for “fuzzy” and “fluffy” and looked it up) baby life nor in the pit of postpartum psychosis.  We’re just women with babies who love them and are committed to giving them the best of ourselves in hopes that their life is better for it.

When I was pregnant, the most useful article I read (and I read A LOT of articles) was the one that talked about the ugliness to be expected post delivery in the first six weeks postpartum.  For those of you who don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, either let it go if you’re squeamish, or go look it up.  It’s gross.  There’s a lot of blood and gore involved – something I found quite shocking because they never seem to mention that in any of the baby shows.  Weird.

But how is it possible that amongst this endless supply of “information”, that the most informative is that depicting extreme blood loss and bloating?  And why are we, by what seems to be intentional omission, leaving the fathers by the wayside?

Enter the tangent…just a second, I promise.

As I stated above, the list I read mentioned everything from smelling roses to hugs and kisses with the child, to shoes, lollipops, love at first sight, the meaning of breasts, yourself, yourself, yourself…nothing – NOT ONE – about the father.  I wouldn’t have taken such a keen dislike to this if I wasn’t already primed for it, admittedly, but now that dislike has arms and legs and is ready to throw down.  There are so many dynamics regarding the interactions between men and women, and I understand that.  What I don’t understand is the woman who throws aside her man as soon as a baby is born, with little to no justification.  It’s almost akin to the female that flips a crazy the second she gets an engagement ring on her finger – she’s got the wedding in sight and, oh yeah there’s a guy I guess, but there’s a WEDDING OMG!  Likewise, I’ve witnessed both in article form and in those near and dear to me this type of abandonment of these male counterparts.  Excluding the guys who either aren’t in the picture or who are and shouldn’t be, I must admit a part of me gets lit up when come across this.  Again, excluding something deserving such as abuse or neglect or infidelity, I can’t understand the woman who becomes baby obsessed at the cost of her man.  I don’t get it.  I love our child, but as I said above, I choose to love my husband more.  I fail at times – usually due to getting stuck in my own head, rather than any child interference – but I try.  I see a shocking number that don’t, and considering that it’s not just the relationship but the well-being of a child at stake also (single moms are rock stars, but I don’t know any who wouldn’t agree that the ideal is a healthy two-person relational team)…I just don’t get it.

The fact that the divorce rate is such that it is, is becoming less and less of a mystery.

End tangent, I suppose.

Anyway.  Society.  Media.  Blah blah blah.  I guess I just long for the never-going-to-happen when we stop promoting what’s good for ratings and start producing what’s honest and edifying.  I wish the puffy overly saccharine would fade to the background so that young women quit buying into what’s false and older (and by older, I mean over 20 ish) know they’re not alone in the lack lusterness that can be the day-to-day realities of having a child.  Things I learned after having a baby?

No one’s experience should be a measure by which to compare your own.  What works for some people could be that which you smile and nod and ignore for yourself.  The first six weeks postpartum were enough to make me never want to have another child.  It sucked.  A lot.  For me, having a child is incredibly isolating.  It doesn’t matter that you’re dressed up cute.  It also doesn’t matter that it’s the weekend!  Friends disappear.  You discover the good and sometimes extreme bad of your families.  You learn what you’re capable of and usually it’s more than you thought.  You learn to love someone for more than what they can offer you.

I’ve also learned that our story is somewhat in the minority.  Not all unplanned pregnancies carry with them the completely undeserved blessing of a stable and happy marriage that I am humbled to call home.

Oh, world.  Slow down.  I really don’t want to have to punch anyone in the face.  First of all, I’m actually mostly nonviolent, but I can also get deported and that’s just no good.  I know it’s too much to hope that the media will tone it down, but could we maybe get out of line to buy into it?

 

6 Months

Bryce,

It is strange to think that six months have passed since the day of your birth.  It both feels like years ago and yesterday at the same time, and there are so many moments between that day and now that I wish I had written down.  Even that day, there’s so much to the story that I’m afraid won’t make it to a re-telling you’ll remember.  You see, every time I tell someone about your birth, a little detail slips from the re-telling.  I don’t mean to do it, it’s just there are so many details to remember about that day, then the days that followed and the weeks and now months that came after, that I am continuously struggling to keep up.

You were due on October 9, and that made me nervous.  I didn’t want you to be born on the 8th, and the 10th was doomed to be the most packed day ever in the hospital because, as you’ll find out probably years from now, people have a thing for “cool dates” – and 10/10/10 was just too good to pass up for those opting to c-section their babies into this world.  As it turned out, you kept us waiting by a week.  I will still probably give you crap about that when you’re old enough to appreciate sarcasm.  But really, that week was for the best.  We had time to prepare before we knew I was going to be induced ridiculously early the morning of October 16.

Your first day in this world began at 4:22pm at St. Josephs Hospital in Orange.  You appeared a 8lb 9oz wriggling little thing, and Dr. made you wave to me and say “Hi, Mom”.  I laughed, and then nearly cried when you were given to us.  You were slippery, and tiny, and you looked so lost – and all we could do was hold you and not let go.  You took ahold of your Daddy’s fingers immediately and didn’t let him go.  He didn’t let you go either, even when they made him sign paperwork.  That first night, you wouldn’t let us put you down and you slept (against the nurses wishes, I might add) alternately in each of our arms.

On the subject of sleep, I have to give you a high-five.  From the start, you gave us 5 hours at a time, and it wasn’t too many weeks before you were sleeping through the night.  This alone would qualify you for super extra bonus double awesome points.  But, you’re pretty rad in so many other ways, it’s kinda crazy.

You went to church at 5 days old, Disneyland at 8 weeks, the Getty at just under 12 weeks, you’ve been to the Aquarium a few times already, the beach quite a few times, and two weeks ago were your first Angel games…all of which you’ve taken in your stride (or, scoot?) immediately with only curiosity and sweetness.  We take you anywhere and everywhere, and it’s fantastic.  I wish I had kept a track of some of these dates, but also I wish I’d kept a better track of your “milestones”.  It seems like you pick up a new skill every day or so, and it’s fascinating to watch.  You’ve said “Dada” for a couple of months now, and added “Mama” nearly one month ago.  Last week, the newest sounds (I’m not claiming them as words just yet, don’t get ahead of yourself) were “again”, “Fish”, “Nana”, and “Papa”.  The cool thing about these “sounds”, is that they were either repeats of what was just said to you, or they were actually the noun in question.  You sit up, eat baby food, are in love with celery, and when left on the floor are never in the same place as we left you.  You even legitimately high-five on cue – which is helpful, considering that one I owe you for the sleep thing.

You are also a pretty neat hybrid of us – you have my eyes and mouth, but somehow manage to look like your dad.  Within the last week or so, your skin just started turning a bit olive – something I hoped would happen, for your sake, rather than you look albino like me.  I think you’ll also been a pretty cool mix of our personalities…which has its pros and cons.  Your dad is King Positive, and I’m a recovering cynic.  Somehow, this keeps us somewhere between dream and reality…I think you’ll like it here.  You already have your dad wrapped around your finger.  Never is your bedtime so late as when Daddy is home for the night and holding you.  And you know it, I swear you do.  I can’t really fault you on that though – I was the same way with your Papa.

It does scare me that you could be like me.  I wanted you to have my eyes, but I really don’t want to you see some of the things I saw growing up.  Kids are cruel.  The world can be worse.  But right now, we don’t need to worry about that.  Right now, you have an entourage of stuffed toys to keep you company during the day: Milo is your stuffed seal pup for the day time at home, Charlie Horse (Her real name is Charlotte, but Daddy can never remember that) is actually a pink zebra and is for “To-Going in the To Go Chair” (translates: traveling in your car seat), and Rupert is your giraffe for bed time.  Right now, we worry about baby proofing the coffee table that you’ve already left bite marks in.  Oh!  OH!  You have teeth!  You got one, then the other the very next day nearly a month ago, and you never so much as whined about it.  Go you! (thank you) Anyway, yes, baby proofing.  Any day now, you’ll be crawling.  You’re so close already, that I’m busy cherishing the moments we have without baby gates just yet.  Any day now, you’ll pop a new tooth, or make a new face, or a new noise, or a new word which we probably shouldn’t have said in your presence but that you’re sure to choose as your new favorite.  Right now there is love, and learning, and there is celery.  And we are happy.

I love you.

Wherein I Deviate From The Former

I realized this past week how much I have missed writing.  I stopped when I was pregnant because everything that was going on was far too personal and bordered on drama – neither of which I felt the need to share with the general public.  Now that things are in the place that they are (something resembling settled), the freedom to write seems to have come along with it.

I have consistently read three bloggers over the years.  They all could fall under the title of “mommy blogger”, though thank GOD, none of them fall victim to inserting the words “cool”, “hip”, or “mom” into their domain names or email addresses.  (I have an instant reaction when stumbling across such things and it usually can equate to mental dry heaving.  It’s the same reaction when I encounter the word “hip” – usage of it makes the subject in question decidedly NOT, as it is a word generally used by the aging middle-aged who are trying to pretend they are still in their twenties.  Moving on.)  They are, for the most part, the closest I can find to women who are Mom’s but not Scary Moms.  They maintain a current awareness of music, push back against the cliches of mom-dom, and don’t remind me of the sterotypical sitcom moms of the 90s that we all grew up with.  Still, I can’t quite fully identify with any of them.

The issues I have with the above tie into the issues that I’ve been working through when it comes to having a baby.  Growing up, I always assumed I would have kids and logically it should follow that I would have the title of “Mom”.  Now that the transition has taken place, I still don’t see myself as a “mom”.  Yes, I have a baby.  Yes, I love her, and care for her, and when I am without her it feels as if I am missing an arm.  Still, though, I cringe at the “Mom” word.  In my head, I hear it and envision women with “mom cut” short hair, who spend their time in high waist jeans and awkward shirts running around in minivans…and changing their email address to something akin to billysmommy21310, or something of that nature.  It’s not that I think there’s anything that much wrong with any of that – it’s just not me.  I don’t see myself as above or beneath anything stereotypically “mom”, I just don’t see it as something that now defines who I am.

The wrestling is probably a side effect of how I dealt with having a baby in the first place.  Some women naturally become enraptured with motherhood – they love the breastfeeding, the diaper changing, the non-sensical conversations, the one-woman show of constantly entertaining…and I didn’t, don’t particularly, tire easily, and feel a bit silly doing.  Baby is a constant part of my daily life, and that is wonderful – but the fuzzy gushy warm and melty feelings that some women spout on and on about kinda make me squirm a little bit.

I know I’m not the first woman who has thought this way, but it doesn’t change the guilt factor.  These days I think there is far too much out there by way of things “mommy”.  The resources are wonderful, but the byproduct of expecting that everyone falls into the same rhythm I feel is a bit unfair.  These sorts of expectations make me feel almost guilty for “accidentally” becoming a mother when there are far more motherly types who have tried to and are currently still waiting.

Just as anyone else, I have been through many transitions of self.  I’ve loved myself, hated myself, and been through a period a few years ago where I didn’t recognize myself and hated just about everything this imposter said and did.  The time following that was very much a re-building year or two.  That was when I re-encountered my now husband, and there has to be some credit due to him for constantly supporting and encouraging me to be the better version of myself.  This latest transition, though, is one that I find hard to mesh with the former.  Perhaps it has something to do with me being one of the first in my circle to enter the world of parenting.  I was the first in my family to get pregnant, and being the youngest, that felt weird.  The first time one of them called me a Mom it freaked me out.  It seems my innate response to rebel against anything “mommy” makes it difficult to accept being a mother.  And a me.

This is all something that in time I’m sure will figure its self out.  It’s just me thinking out loud.

The Blog On Day 279

I have been meaning to sit down and write for ages now but, just as the remaining thank-you notes stacked on my coffee table go to prove, I am a master at forgetful procrastination.  Unfortunately, at D-minus 1 day, it seems that our daughter may well follow in my procrastinating footsteps.

There have been many things learned during the last nine months – some of them positive, some amusing, some moderately horrifying, and most that have been quite unexpected.  Whatever classification I would file these experiences under, they’ve all been a part of a journey that has felt equal parts sprint and wounded crawl…and that should hopefully all pull together to form an end/new beginning this weekend.

For the most part (minus a brief stint in my 19th year) I’ve always wanted kids, and often daydreamed about the idea of being pregnant.  From my late teens onwards, I would imagine from time to time what it would be like to be expecting my first child.  Most of these scenes, though played out without the specific face of a companion (because I certainly was NOT that girl who pictured her wedding or who she’d marry, nor committed myself even in thought to the idea of marrying whoever happened to be around at any given time), were happy and bright and filled with attention focused on ME.  I loved the idea of getting physically bigger with justification, and pictured myself being the quietly graceful and loving wife of a man in the church, and blah blah blah…you get the picture.  On the flip side, in complete and somewhat incriminating honesty, there were also the daydreams that weren’t so cheery.  My lingering angsty teenager-ness would also conjure the less glorious visions of child incubating.  Everything from surprise pregnancies, to trauma, to tragedy involving myself, the faceless (or in these cases, sometimes with face) companion, or imagined child themselves was pictured and dwelt on with what I see now to be an odd sort of need for attention stemming from tragedy.  Maybe it’s the wiring from getting myself into moronic situations growing up, or a perceived lack of care unless things were in dire straights, but now that I’m realizing it – I’m not particularly fond of the fact that my most dwelt on daydreams were of awful things happening to me.  What.  The.  Heck.

Anyway, as is often the case (and it can’t just be in MY case, because statistically that’s just crap), I present a real-time example of “careful what you wish for”.  This pregnancy has been physically easy, but on every other level it has been a collision of sorts with elements of both my happy fantasies and my tragic daydreams fusing together to form what is quite a colorful story.  There are quite a few subjects I would love to cover, and maybe someday there’ll be the time and place for that, but for now here’s a few thoughts.

One of my biggest observations, and what has turned into my present soapbox from which I occasionally rant, is that pregnancy is one of the very few medical conditions wherein the general public feels the need and right to comment upon every facet of your physical being.  Seriously.  I cannot tell you how many random strangers (and very well-meaning, I will acknowledge) have approached me and made completely unsolicited comments on everything from my size and appearance to how their neighbor suffered an infant death due to the cord being wrapped around the child’s neck.  At times it can be comical to observe the irony of something that was conceived quite ahem, privately, become something so public, but most of the time it breeds for me a certain kind of frustration and awkwardness.  As it turns out, that want for excessive attention exists mostly within the confines of my imagination.  With the obvious exception of family, close friends, and other half, my physical being as a topic of discussion I rather distant.  My former boss used to make comments to guests in front of me about my size or state of “glowing”, and all I could do was politely smile and offer my most fabricated thanks when really I was fighting the urge to comment on the direct opposite condition represented in HER.  I happen to be tall and proportioned with a longer torso, so I don’t show nearly as much as those shorter or with more leggy proportions.  I can’t tell you how many people have accused me of having the dates wrong, or how I should be eating more because I can’t possibly be getting the baby enough if I’m THAT SIZE.  Clearly, people (and, hate to say it, mostly women who have yet to lose what they still term “baby weight”) would rather see you resemble a heifer and thereby “normal”, than normal sized and thereby “abnormal”.  But really…what gives people the permission to comment on my weight, size, appearance, and forecast my immediate future simply because I’m pregnant?  If I did the same thing to people who weren’t pregnant, I’d probably be in for some rather unpleasant reactions.  Why does incubating a baby make your physical and emotional self public domain for discussion?  Even if it CAN be perceived as flattering or positive?

In my case, it’s not just the physical side at play, and maybe that has something to do with my observations above.  For me, as most are aware, it took a while to be happy about anything involving the pregnancy.  That fact incurs a huge amount of guilt.  I feel guilt that the child we’re soon to meet wasn’t at first entirely welcome.  I never rejected her, but I definitely felt trapped at times because of the lack of control I had over the circumstances of her timing.  I feel guilt that she wasn’t planned, and I have incredibly dear friends who have been trying to have babies for anywhere from a couple up to over ten years.  For me, there were many, many, MANY, emotional and psychological factors to work through both in myself and in my relationship to get to a place of being happy about all this.  Thank God we are (mostly) at that place, but it certainly wasn’t automatic…and the commentary offered by the unsolicited general public certainly didn’t help.  I can’t even imagine what it must be like for women in worse situations than mine, because I am by no means under the delusion that I have it bad.  I don’t.  I am blessed.  I am beyond blessed by a supportive family, amazing friends, and a man who loves me.  We are more than provided for and compared to the majority of the world, we are rich on every level.  We have our own place to call home (and a very nice home it is, too), we have the luxuries of two cars, cable and internet, iPhones (these, though I at times like to think so, are not necessities.  They are almost obscene luxuries, in light of the majority of the world – not America – the WORLD’s economic status), even down to our ability to be picky about not just food but what food we want on the table.  We.  Are.  Blessed.  It is the situations that are all too abundant where people are not quite so blessed that have me shaking my head at society’s seeming need to comment on those of us who happen to be pregnant.  Unless the facts of a happy family are present and obvious, I can’t help but question the fairness of bombarding a woman with congratulations (You don’t know her situation.  She may not be ready to hear it…I wasn’t at first.), or questions (Weight gain may be a sore subject.  It was for me, even though in comparison to the vast majority, I didn’t gain much.), or even personal stories depending on the tragic components they contain…it’s all a bit much.  There seriously isn’t any other medical condition where so many of the general public feel the automatic permission to talk about something so personal.  I wonder at how this affects a potentially already traumatized woman – the one who’s pregnant by unfortunate circumstances, or who’s guy is no longer in the picture, or who’s planning on giving the baby up for adoption, or who knows there’s a health complication with the baby – really, the possibilities, though I realize a complete bummer, are endless.  How about waiting until the woman mentions it, thereby granting her permission, before commentary?  What about waiting until she mentions her dietary plan, as many women will on all ends of the spectrum, before commenting on her weight gain or lack thereof?  Why not wait for her to ask how your delivery was before offering that you nearly died on the table?  Even encouragement can be hard to hear when you’re not even ready (as I wasn’t) to hear that you’re pregnant.

I did mention that this has become a soapbox from which I rant, didn’t I?

In recognition of that, and on a gentler side, I do know that most people mean well.  I know that most people genuinely have the best of intentions and are more focussed on the excitement that babies bring than on the emotional stability of the woman carrying said baby.  I know.  I understand.  I even agree to some extent that pregnancies and babies should be treated with excitement and that this excitement is society’s natural welcoming process of a new life into the world.  I realize that I have, perhaps, an over sensitivity to this.  But…I also think that I can’t possibly be the only one…becuase statistically that’s just crap.

Aside from my soapbox, or the realization that perhaps excessive attention is not really my thing, or the unexpectedness of my reality, I really do know that I am incredibly fortunate and am excited for what the future has to bring.  God doesn’t make mistakes, and this is something I am only barely beginning to try accepting.  This pregnancy has brought many people back into my life in a more stable and frequent basis, and for that I am overwhelmingly thankful.  Unfortunately, it has caused one or two to exit stage left – something that honestly still hurts – but for the most part, I have never felt so supported or aware of being loved.  It is quite humbling.  Though I am scared to do so (because a cynical mind is a terribly difficult thing to reprogram), I do look forward to what we are about to experience with this new life.  I know that this baby was no accident, in some ways not regardless but rather especially because of her timing.  I also know that no matter what it is that I’m still afraid of, everything is still ok and under control.

We have quite the adventure ahead of us.

The Blog About Imaginary Heart Conditions

I will be the first to admit that, on a physical basis, I have been rather lucky during this pregnancy thus far.  Like my mother, I didn’t suffer a single day of morning sickness, or cravings, or ridiculous and unexplainable weight gain.  During the first trimester, when everyone asks how you are with a grimace of sympathy on their face, I quite honest could say that the worst thing I had to deal with was hitting a slight wall of tired in the late evening.  The second trimester – the supposedly “easy” trimester – is where I hit my first crappy side effect.  I already had low blood pressure, but having a case of pregnancy gave me extremely low blood pressure – to the extent that I was near blacking out and seeing lovely neon spots.  Also added to this fabulousness was a sudden onslaught of near-migrane level headaches.  After a morning at the ER and a prescription of Vicodin (Yes, they really do prescribe that for people carrying fetuses), I was told that this was just how it would be because…I had a case of pregnancy.  A few weeks later, I was mostly adjusted to all this and feeling mostly better. 

Fast forward to the third trimester.

As I said above, I will still maintain that I have had a reasonably easy time with this whole pregnancy thing.  That said, I will also admit that I am not one of those people who particularly likes being pregnant.  I don’t understand the “magical” feeling that some talk about, nor do I feel so overwhelmed by the miracle of it all (not saying it isn’t miraculous and rather high on the awesome scale) that I just can’t wait to discuss it with random strangers who feel the need to ask my due date before my name.  I have been spared a little bit of this assumed permission into my personal life, as I didn’t start showing until I was well into the 5th month…but still.  It feels awkward to me.  Plus, the added third trimester bonus prize for me has turned out to be an irregular heart beat that caused my doctor to send me to a cardiologist this past week. 

I have usually trusted doctors at what they say with the assumption that their years of studies and that fancy degree on their wall makes them more qualified than I to cast judgement on the condition of my physical self.  Well, with the exception of the arrogant PA when I was 19 who said there was NO WAY I could possibly have mono since I was lacking the apparently crucial sore throat necessary to make such a diagnosis.  Yeah.  24 hours later, I was in the ER with a fever of 104 and a shiny new diagnosis of mono.  With no sore throat.  But besides that, I’ve given most doctors my overall approval, trust, and offered little kickback to what they say and suggest.  This is why anything I’m about to say feels that much more justified. 

My OB referred me to a cardiologist after I complained of feeling palpitations due to an arrhythmia.  This irregular heart beat is something my mother is familiar with as she was diagnosed with a Mitral Valve Prolapse by several Cardiologists, among other issues to do with her heart.  My doctor even asked if my mother had been diagnosed with this particular condition, and since he seemed to think it was relevant to my case, she tagged along to my appointment. 

First of all, it took four phone calls, two voice mails, and three days for anyone to get back to me about making said appointment.  If I was reporting an issue with a hangnail, I could perhaps understand this sort of passive response.  Being that I am over eight months pregnant and that it’s my heart (only a little important for that whole living thing), I felt that this delay in response was at the least mildly irritating.  After scheduling the appointment, I arrived the following week at the requested 30 minutes early to complete any paperwork.  After signing in, it took them 25 minutes to re-check what I had already filled out prior to the day, and another hour to get to my appointment.  I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a cardiologists office…but it’s depressing as eff.  It’s like a waiting room for the afterlife.  At 26 and in apparent good health, I threw the bell curve WAY off with the surrounding extremely elderly and fading from life.  That sounds awful, but at the time I found it rather disconcerting to say the least.  After we got into an exam room (again, 1.5 hours after my arrival time.  I could have watched Finding Nemo in that time.), the EKG they did took less time (30 seconds) than it took to place the electrodes on me (2 minutes).  Unsurprisingly, it came back normal.  The nurse was a sweetheart, commented on my excessively low blood pressure, talked about babies, completed her work and exited the room.  A few minutes went by, then…enter the Doctor. 

The man seemed decent at first…until he started talking.  It became clear very early on that this was a scientist who would be better suited to a lab with test tubes and rats than patients with cognitive brain function and any reasonable spectrum of emotion.  He was abrupt, devoid of any interpersonal skills whatsoever, and seemed more interested in saying I was fine and there was nothing wrong with me than he was on asking anything to do with anything that might indicate such a conclusion.  He asked me one question, and when I began to give him an answer that wasn’t in the exact format he had expected, he cut me off and re-asked his question.  After that, he listened to my heart for nearly nine seconds, then came to the remarkable diagnosis that I had a case of pregnancy. 

I.  Was.  Shocked. 

I’m so glad he told me I was pregnant, because otherwise I never would have known. 

My mother, having watched this exchange, mentioned that my doctor had thought her medical history could be relevant to my case.  Dr. Congeniality cut her off and rudely said “And WHO are you?” – he hadn’t bothered to take note of the other human in the room and introduce himself, and clearly this was her fault.  She introduced and then explained that she had been diagnosed with a Mitral Valve Prolapse and before she could expand upon anything else she has had with her heart he cut her off again and definitively said “That doesn’t exist”.  That response I found interesting, as more than three Cardiologists, a heart surgeon, my OB, and any other person I had mentioned this pending appointment to had all heard of this apparently imaginary condition.  Also weird, because it’s talked about in decent detail here, here, and here.  He then went on to say that it was a mythical diagnosis that was popular in the 80′s and had about as much relevance as saying someone had blue eyes. 

I can understand saying that it wasn’t life threatening, and rarely relevant to daily life, but “It doesn’t exist”.  Really?  Oh, but he was sure to let us know that he’d written a book on heart conditions in the female body and it was available on Amazon.com.  Lemme get right on that, Sir. 

A second later, he said he’d like me to do a treadmill test and wear a heart monitor for 30 days.  We can fast forward through the next irritating 25 minutes of a nurse trying to instruct me on how to use a monitor she had never seen before, and jump to us leaving the offices completely pissed off and feeling as though a significant amount of time and money had just been thrown out the window. 

As of today, three days later, I have a monitor that has not been worn and an appointment that has now been cancelled.  And a lot of frustration.  Beaucoup frustration. 

At this point, I’m not interested in giving time and money to someone so arrogant.  If this were Hugh Laurie, then fair enough.  This guy?  Not so much.  So now…we wait.  We figure out what to do and where to go, or if to go anywhere at all.  And of course, we could go on Amazon.com and find all the answers in his book.  Of course.