I suppose every pregnancy needs a bad doctor visit.

Oh. my. goodness.

So, baby boy is 25 weeks and “kicking” (these kicks actually feels like little carbonated bubbles in my lower belly). Baby boy likes sitting low inside of me. I didn’t think that was a problem until Ms. UltraSound Tech made me feel like it was, and Mr. Specialist made me feel like it was.

But let’s start from the beginning.

I love my OB. Mrs. Doctor is board certified and amazing. She’s sassy and smart as hell. Her office is also amazing. The staff is organized and very helpful.

I had three ultasounds of little bean, and my regular ultrasound tech couldn’t see the four chambers of the heart properly. Mrs. Doctor, wanting to make sure all is well with him, referred me to Mr. Specialist, who focuses on high-risk pregnancies (I’m 36! I’m high risk! Don’t get too close!).

When I think “specialist,” I think clean, immaculate offices, with very few patients in the waiting room, and top-notch receptionists with bright smiles. I also think of a doctor with good bedside manners and extreme knowledge, like genius-level knowledge.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

The husband and I walked in yesterday afternoon and were accosted with the stench of bodies, all ages and all colors. Years of body funk sat on the decrepit chairs (some even broken! Yes, Ms. Pregnant Lady, please sit down on the broken chair. You’ll be fine.) and clung onto the snot-colored walls. About five people were sneezing and coughing, and an old oscillating fan circulated the germs to all 25 of us. 25 people in a room whose maximum capacity, by order of the fire marshal, was 18.

And the people just kept coming. They poured out into the hallway like cake batter overflow. They brought their spouses/boyfriends, brothers, sisters, and 15 children with them. They chatted loudly on their phones while others played Zelda-like war games on their tablets with the sound at full blast.

We had originally made an appointment, as everyone else did in that room, but it appears the office books people in ten minute increments. Inside Out was playing on the television in the corner; the husband and I were almost able to watch the entire movie before being seen. No, our time doesn’t really mean anything to us. I mean shoot, what IS time after all? It’s not like we have lives outside of waiting to see a so-called specialist, in a waiting room that is worse that anything seen in a county hospital.

I loved all the fake apologies too. You know the ones: “Sorry we’re running late.” You’re not really sorry. If you were sorry, you would make it up to us. Nobody said this: “I apologize for taking away your time. Let me do this to compensate for your wait.” Yes, thank you, that would be great. Instead it’s SORRY.

Once we were finally in a room (an hour and a half later) Ms. UltraSound Tech proceeded to measure little bean. Because he is sitting low in me, my abdomen was pushed so hard I thought I would have bruises this morning. She jiggled the wand thing on my belly to try to get him to move around (didn’t work). She had me sit up and try to reach my toes to try and force him up higher in my abdomen (didn’t work). She leaned on my leg as well, which was a bit invasive and uncomfortable. Finally she left the room, me belly up like a bleached whale, and I started to cry. Husband helped me sit up and held me while I tried to stop the tears.

Then , Mr. Specialist came in. I’m actually tired of writing about this experience, but I will say this: he really had no clue how to talk to me or my husband. He had no idea what Lemierre’s Disease was (I caught this six years ago from God-knows where; you could have at least Googled it and realized it’s a virus and that I’m not prone to blood clots). He prescribed all these labs for me (which I’m not doing). He wanted me to get all these invasive tests done because I’M HIGH RISK (which I’m not doing). He asked us what we do for a living (the husband proceeded to ask, “Why does it matter what I do for a living?”). While he was in there with us, his front office called my cell phone. What the…? Then, HE proceeded to lean even further onto my belly and repeat what Ms. UST just did. Both of them blamed their lack of perception of the baby’s heart on my baby’s position. As if it’s my baby’s fault for their incompetence.

I do have to say, I think my baby is demonstrating a personality already. At all of the second trimester ultrasounds, he has not cooperated with the technicians. Yesterday, he had his arms across his chest, as if he knew people wanted to see his heart and he didn’t want to show it to them. That just makes me laugh. Good little baby.

THREE HOURS LATER, we were heading home. Mr. Specialist wanted to see me again in four weeks. I made an appointment that I will cancel next week.

Forget him. Forget that hell-hole of an office. I pray that I never have to see him ever again.


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