Hospital Antics
Well, we had our genetic counseling appointment yesterday, and what a crazy scene. Seriously, it was like a vaudeville act. Scholar got up late, which necessitated some callous speeding through the small towns and hamlets and into the city. Naturally, we ran into (no, not literally) a road closed due to construction. The irony was that I knew this road was closed, but my brain chose to ignore that memory until about 5 seconds before I hit (no, not literally) the telltale orange cones. So we detoured.
You must understand detours in my city. I have lived here almost all my life, but there are some areas in which I have yet to venture off the beaten path. In other words, if it ain't on the main strip, I probably haven't been there. Now this hospital to which we were traveling is a MAJOR hospital, and sadly, I have spent a lot of time in the ER there, counseling crime victims. You would think I could drive there in my sleep -- because I already have, several times. But in fact, I can only drive that main strip with my eyes closed. And this time, if I had closed my eyes and continued driving, I would have hit some nice young man in a hard hat -- and where would his family be?
The detour took us away from civilization and into farm country. I had no idea how to reroute us, so I just followed all the other cars and prayed like hell they were going to the hospital, too. A couple were going to McDonald's, but I actually could tell the difference. We arrived at the hospital almost exactly ten minutes late.
Not bad, right? Ten minutes -- that's nothing. We parked the car; we headed to the elevators. We got off at the wrong floor. I had a mini-tantrum (oh, just for effect, people. Just for laughs). We headed into the hospital, and two automatic doors started closing. I admit it: I panicked. I ran through them like I was Indiana Jones diving underneath a swiftly falling stone wall. Scholar was laughing so hard that he had tears in his eyes, because did I really think they were going to close on me? They're automatic doors in a HOSPITAL, for goodness' sake.
By the time we got into the actual lobby, I was in a dangerously goofy mood. I love it when we get like that. I never doubt that we belong together: we're just too weird for anyone else.
So we headed up the elevators to the third floor. That would make sense, right? The room number was in the 3000s, and the first floor had rooms like 1003 and 1007. You would make the logical assumption that 3222 was on the third floor, wouldn't you?
You'd be wrong. You'd be wrong because I have suddenly developed dyslexia, and I can't be trusted with numbers (not that I ever could). As we wandered around the floor, I got the distinct impression that we were in the WRONG place. Maybe it was the names of the departments that clued me in: otolaryngologist, for example. Director of Teaching Hospital.
If we hadn't found the green elevators again, we might still be there, wandering aimlessly through the halls, calling "Genetics? Genetics?"
When we finally got to the proper room (which, oddly enough, was in NO WAY 3222) we were twenty-five minutes late. We were lucky: they agreed to see us. We went over family histories, and the counselor said she saw nothing that concerned her except my Advanced Maternal Age. And then she dropped the bombshell -- apparently, we had been scheduled for an ultrasound this very morning.
It was like the prize in the center of the labyrinth. We were going to get to see the Guppy! So we headed down to the next set of tunnels, successfully navigated our way to the appropriate department, and within 30 minutes, I was up on a table with my garments around my hips.
The tech was wonderful. She actually warmed the jelly, which I have started to realize is an anamoly in the world of sonogramming. And then she wielded her tool like an expert (shut up, Potts) and lo! The Guppy appeared.
Except it is not a Guppy anymore. It is a baby. With a head, and arms, and legs, and all sorts of delicious parts. A real, live human being. A beautiful, beautiful child.
Ours. All ours.
Scholar could not stop looking at the screen. He was smiling so much, I thought his cheeks might crack. And the baby was bopping away, moving its head and its arms so rhythmically that I could have sworn I saw headphones on its earbuds. What was it listening to? Scholar has been playing an abudance of Pet Shop Boys, which makes me fearful of baby corruption. I hope our kid wasn't dancing to "West End Girls." That WILL NOT be allowed. Duran Duran is one thing, but effeminate techno music is something else entirely (not that there's anything inherently wrong with it. It should just be introduced slowly). I will have to counter this indoctorination with some ass-kicking Aerosmith. Assuming I can find some.
Anyway, we saw our child. The tech spent a long time with each shot, letting us drink in the sights, letting us giggle and coo and act like idiots. I'm sure she thought we were giddy with the prospect of being new parents. How could she have known that we act like idiots 24-7?
She measured the neck, and told us right away that everything looked normal. She left to fill out some paperwork, and during her absence, Scholar and I discussed the beauty that is our child. Oh, other children are beautiful -- we even know some ourselves -- but none can compare to the angelic loveliness that is THIS child. And there is no way -- oh, I'm sorry. I meant to write that "there is NO WAY" we are doing a single thing to jeopardize its life. So we have both agreed: no amnio. Regardless of the test results, no amnio.
That's a relief, by the way.
The vaudeville show continued as we left that department and went to get blood drawn. Problem was, the jokes were suddenly on me. I had a trainee phlebotomist, who cut off circulation in both arms, complained about my difficult veins, and poked me about six times in the wrong places and at the wrong angles before her supervisor stepped in. I've never felt close to fainting when having blood drawn, but the room was starting to spin. I was so grateful when the supervisor said, "Oh, never mind. I'll do it."
And then we went out to lunch. With pictures. Of our baby. Whom I love.
Such a beautiful day.
You must understand detours in my city. I have lived here almost all my life, but there are some areas in which I have yet to venture off the beaten path. In other words, if it ain't on the main strip, I probably haven't been there. Now this hospital to which we were traveling is a MAJOR hospital, and sadly, I have spent a lot of time in the ER there, counseling crime victims. You would think I could drive there in my sleep -- because I already have, several times. But in fact, I can only drive that main strip with my eyes closed. And this time, if I had closed my eyes and continued driving, I would have hit some nice young man in a hard hat -- and where would his family be?
The detour took us away from civilization and into farm country. I had no idea how to reroute us, so I just followed all the other cars and prayed like hell they were going to the hospital, too. A couple were going to McDonald's, but I actually could tell the difference. We arrived at the hospital almost exactly ten minutes late.
Not bad, right? Ten minutes -- that's nothing. We parked the car; we headed to the elevators. We got off at the wrong floor. I had a mini-tantrum (oh, just for effect, people. Just for laughs). We headed into the hospital, and two automatic doors started closing. I admit it: I panicked. I ran through them like I was Indiana Jones diving underneath a swiftly falling stone wall. Scholar was laughing so hard that he had tears in his eyes, because did I really think they were going to close on me? They're automatic doors in a HOSPITAL, for goodness' sake.
By the time we got into the actual lobby, I was in a dangerously goofy mood. I love it when we get like that. I never doubt that we belong together: we're just too weird for anyone else.
So we headed up the elevators to the third floor. That would make sense, right? The room number was in the 3000s, and the first floor had rooms like 1003 and 1007. You would make the logical assumption that 3222 was on the third floor, wouldn't you?
You'd be wrong. You'd be wrong because I have suddenly developed dyslexia, and I can't be trusted with numbers (not that I ever could). As we wandered around the floor, I got the distinct impression that we were in the WRONG place. Maybe it was the names of the departments that clued me in: otolaryngologist, for example. Director of Teaching Hospital.
If we hadn't found the green elevators again, we might still be there, wandering aimlessly through the halls, calling "Genetics? Genetics?"
When we finally got to the proper room (which, oddly enough, was in NO WAY 3222) we were twenty-five minutes late. We were lucky: they agreed to see us. We went over family histories, and the counselor said she saw nothing that concerned her except my Advanced Maternal Age. And then she dropped the bombshell -- apparently, we had been scheduled for an ultrasound this very morning.
It was like the prize in the center of the labyrinth. We were going to get to see the Guppy! So we headed down to the next set of tunnels, successfully navigated our way to the appropriate department, and within 30 minutes, I was up on a table with my garments around my hips.
The tech was wonderful. She actually warmed the jelly, which I have started to realize is an anamoly in the world of sonogramming. And then she wielded her tool like an expert (shut up, Potts) and lo! The Guppy appeared.
Except it is not a Guppy anymore. It is a baby. With a head, and arms, and legs, and all sorts of delicious parts. A real, live human being. A beautiful, beautiful child.
Ours. All ours.
Scholar could not stop looking at the screen. He was smiling so much, I thought his cheeks might crack. And the baby was bopping away, moving its head and its arms so rhythmically that I could have sworn I saw headphones on its earbuds. What was it listening to? Scholar has been playing an abudance of Pet Shop Boys, which makes me fearful of baby corruption. I hope our kid wasn't dancing to "West End Girls." That WILL NOT be allowed. Duran Duran is one thing, but effeminate techno music is something else entirely (not that there's anything inherently wrong with it. It should just be introduced slowly). I will have to counter this indoctorination with some ass-kicking Aerosmith. Assuming I can find some.
Anyway, we saw our child. The tech spent a long time with each shot, letting us drink in the sights, letting us giggle and coo and act like idiots. I'm sure she thought we were giddy with the prospect of being new parents. How could she have known that we act like idiots 24-7?
She measured the neck, and told us right away that everything looked normal. She left to fill out some paperwork, and during her absence, Scholar and I discussed the beauty that is our child. Oh, other children are beautiful -- we even know some ourselves -- but none can compare to the angelic loveliness that is THIS child. And there is no way -- oh, I'm sorry. I meant to write that "there is NO WAY" we are doing a single thing to jeopardize its life. So we have both agreed: no amnio. Regardless of the test results, no amnio.
That's a relief, by the way.
The vaudeville show continued as we left that department and went to get blood drawn. Problem was, the jokes were suddenly on me. I had a trainee phlebotomist, who cut off circulation in both arms, complained about my difficult veins, and poked me about six times in the wrong places and at the wrong angles before her supervisor stepped in. I've never felt close to fainting when having blood drawn, but the room was starting to spin. I was so grateful when the supervisor said, "Oh, never mind. I'll do it."
And then we went out to lunch. With pictures. Of our baby. Whom I love.
Such a beautiful day.
posted by Tierant at Thursday, May 25, 2006
2 Comments:
A post so wonderful I read it twice.
Happy Baby Day. Note; You'd better get the route to the hospital down pat well before you go into labor. Every route. Back roads, front roads, helicopter landing pads. Otherwise, you'll wind up giving birth at Barnes & Nobles.
I have no doubt you could find a bookstore in the final throes of labor.
The hospital? Not so much.
Yes, Ms. Smarty-Pants, but which section would I choose? Your gut might tell you Children's Lit, but you'd be wrong! I wouldn't want to get the treasures all messy.
So...if Trants gives birth in Barnes and Noble, which section would she likely straddle?
This sounds like a Zen Koan, doesn't it? If Trants gives birth in a bookstore, will she still make a sound?
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