(WARNING: As I write this post, I am at the end of my pregnancy rope.)
I always, always, always pick the wrong doctors. Always. In college, I got the doctor who thought that every symptom you had was a symptom of an STD.
Runny nose? Syphallis.
Sprained wrist? Ghonorria.
Upset stomach? Herpes.
Every time I went in, I given a safe sex lecture and a handful of condoms as my “medication.” Freaking doctors.
When I graduated from college and got big girl health insurance, I got a real doctor. But she was one of those health nuts who thinks that hugs and unicorns can cure anything. I went in to her one time with a horrible head cold that I thought was infected because it had been weeks and it just wouldn’t drain. Her back was to me when I asked for a prescription for something that could break this up so I could go back to work. Suddenly, she stopped writing in her little notepad, slowly put her pen down, and turned to me with a stern face.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Well let me tell you. I’m not that kind of doctor that just gives out drugs.”
Drugs? Its a Z-pack, lady. Not Percoset.
And now that I am pregnant, I seem to have chosen the wrong doctor again. I know that when you’re growing a person inside you, you really have to be careful about what you put in your body. But I also know that I can’t spend my work days locked in the bathroom stall. And I know several moms who have taken a prescription to help with the sickness and their babies came out perfectly normal – all fingers, toes, and earlobes accounted for. But do you think my doctor will give me anything? ANYthing? Nooooooo.
Three weeks ago, I called her when I couldn’t keep anything down. I told her I didn’t need something every day, just something to settle my stomach so that I could get back to work. Her solution? Crackers and saltines. I wanted to reach through the phone and smack her upside the head. No shit crackers and saltines! You think I haven’t tried freaking crackers and saltines?!?! I have a mother, don’t I?
A few days later I called back to say that (shockingly) the crackers and saltines just weren’t doing the trick.
“Okay,” she said. “Time to try something drastic. You need to go to the grocery store and buy yourself some ginger root. Then boil that ginger root in some hot water. Add a little honey, and enjoy a warm cup of homemade ginger tea.”
Look, Dr. Doolittle. I don’t want to homebrew myself anything. I want a prescription. Real medicine. Not some backwoods, home grown remedy that my mom could have given me. I’m not pretend sick. I haven’t pooped in 3 days. I’m so emotional that last night I cried at a story on the news. I throw up every time I brush my teeth. I gag when I’m within 25 feet of food. I’m hungry. I’m cranky. And I think my husband may leave me if I don’t get this under control. I don’t need a hug or a warm shower or a long walk or a tea or a Preggie Pop. I’m going to need some real help here. So take off your Girl Scout sash and break out your prescription pad.
But instead of saying all of this, I wimp out and say that I’ll give it a try. And, of course, it does nothing. Nothing.
So, I call her again. “This really isn’t working out. I think I could use some medication. I can’t keep calling in to work or spending my days in the bathroom. Do you think there is some medicine that could help?”
“Okay,” she says, clearly disappointed that I have chosen the unhealthy, baby-killing route of medication. “Why don’t you try this brand of medication that you can get right at your local pharmacy. Over the counter.”
Freaking doctor. Over the counter? Are you serious?!?! I wanted to scream out, “Where the hell did you get your medical degree?!?! Were you there the day that the Teletubbies were giving out white coats????”
But I suck it up, yet again, and last night I tried this over the counter medicine. I was up all night long in the bathroom. All. Night. Long. I feel terrible this morning, and I look like I’m already wearing a Halloween mask.
I’ve had enough. I’m calling her this morning and I’m telling her straight up. I do drugs. Prescription drugs. Not rainbows and things that grow in the woods. Real drugs. And if she has a problem helping me out with some REAL medications, then maybe I need to find a different doctor because I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not arguing with that bitch on my delivery day about how powerful positive thinking can be in lieu of an epidural.