First let me say that I admire any woman who can be pregnant and still keep the normalcies of life going. The exhaustion I feel as an expectant mother rivals the exhaustion I felt when I had mono. There have been days that I dragged myself home from work and Read found me sprawled on the bed, still in my scrubs, snoring. After a two hour nap, I was able to pull myself together, eat dinner, and drag myself back to bed by 9:30. I’m also flabbergasted that my endurance is so low at work and that it takes me longer to do things. I used to be able to get so much accomplished in the few minutes I had between patients. Now I feel lucky if I can go to bathroom and get a drink before it’s time to move on to the next appointment.
In spite of the changes going on in my body and the added challenges of trying to reach around an expanding middle to gain access to the mouths awaiting my attention, I still enjoy my job and the interactions I have with my patients. I’ve attempted to record some of the highlights of the conversations, advice, admonishments, and predictions I’ve received in the last few months. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
The first time someone asked me about my expectant condition, I was shocked because nothing was showing and we were not making any announcements yet. It came from a rather gruff male patient who was very nice, but always struck me as someone who would rather just get down to business than talk about anything personal. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: How are you doing today?
Patient: *staring intently at me* Can I ask you a question?
Me: Of course!
Patient: Are you… *gesturing in a round motion around his belly to indicate pregnancy*?
Me: *shocked* Yes, but how did you know? (I was looking down furiously to see if something was exposed that shouldn’t have been.)
Patient: *with a smile and a twinkle in his eye* You’re glowing and you just had that look. I’m real happy for you. You’re gonna make a great mom.
This interaction touched my heart, and, after I got over my initial shock and semi-embarrassment made my day.
Other interactions with patients have been more comical as I started to show, but it wasn’t very obvious yet. When I went to the waiting room to bring my patient back, I would notice them giving my round middle a good once-over. Most of the time I took pity on them and shared our news. This usually brought on congratulations, excitement, and sometimes a few well-intentioned suggestions or pieces of advice.
One person asked me if we would be having a home birth. I told her, no, that this baby would be born in a hospital. Her response made me chuckle; she said, “Oh, well you were homeschooled, so I just assumed you would be doing a home birth.” That poor patient would probably be dreadfully disappointed to find out that I don’t have time to grind my own wheat and make my own bread either. Some grown up homeschooler I turned out to be.
Another day, I seated a patient, and she scrutinized my expanding middle. “Wow!” she suddenly exclaimed, “How much longer do you have to go? You’re huge! Are you going to make it?” Uh, sure…? The very next patient walked in, sat in the patient chair, and pronounced, “I thought you were pregnant! You’re not showing a bit. Where’s the baby?!?” Obviously, pregnancy is in the eye of the beholder. For instance, when I blamed a blunder on pregnancy brain, another patient looked at me skeptically and said, “Oh, are you pregnant? I just thought you’d gained a lot of weight.” When I got home and told Read about the interaction, he informed me with a big smile and a twinkle in his eye that I could have told my patient that actually both were true.
Perhaps the aforementioned patient should have taken a page out of another patient’s play book that is surely entitled “How to Safely Interact with a Possibly Expectant Female.” This good-natured patient that has been seeing me for many years knew just what to say. When he saw me as I came out to the waiting area to get him, he glanced at my belly, grinned, and said, “Why, Betsy, you’re looking a little different than the last time I saw you. Have you done something different with your hair?”
In another patient encounter, I realized the woman was telling me goodbye like she would never see me again. I finally said, “I’ll be back in January. I’ll see you when you come back in six months.” She shook her head sadly and told me that she just knew I would take one look at that precious baby and not come back to work ever again. I tend to take a much more practical view of the situation: If I have to go back to work one day a week, it will force me to shower and get dressed at least once-a-week and smell like something other than baby puke. Don’t get me wrong, I can hardly wait to take care of this baby and get to “perfect” my mom skills, and being a mother is definitely my first priority, but an occasional break will be fine for both baby and me.
It’s been a huge encouragement to me to receive all of the well-wishes and reassurances from patients and coworkers alike. It will be interesting to see how things go at work as the pregnancy progresses and I eventually start to waddle. If you’re reading this, and you’re a patient in my chair anytime in the next six weeks, please know that I feel so good, I forget sometimes that I have an expanding belly; if I bump you in the head with it, or I’m sitting so close that Austin gives you a nudge with one of his appendages, just know you are appreciated and have made it into the inner circle. And If I’m a couple of minutes late getting you seated in the chair, it probably means I was either running to the bathroom or grabbing a snack so that it would be a more pleasant appointment for you. You’re welcome.