I remember looking forward to my prenatal appointments when I was
pregnant with Robby. Each visit was an opportunity to listen to his
heartbeat, to gain insight into how he was growing, and to gain
information. I was hoping to have a similar experience with this baby.
Unfortunately, I now find myself dreading the appointments.
Don't
get me wrong; listening to the baby's heartbeat is the highlight of any
day. During my visit yesterday I felt my eyes swell with tears when I
heard the quick little Doppler pitter-patter of our baby's healthy
heart. Moments like that I cherish because, although I'm trying to be
joyful, this pregnancy has been extremely stressful.
Much
of the stress I can attribute squarely to one individual. The nurse
practitioner, whom I met on my first appointment, spent the entire hour
systematically sucking the joy out of me. By the time I left the office I
felt like an over-the-hill woman who was selfish for daring to have a
baby at such an advanced age. Since that date I have tried my best to
put her doomsday predictions out of my mind and concentrate on the
happiness of this event. Unfortunately, that is much easier said than
done.
I understand the need to provide
statistics, but this lady was in overkill mode. Papers were piled in
front of me, each declaring seemingly daunting odds. When I asked about
the most concerning, 1 in 32 pregnancies in a woman of my "advanced age"
results in child with chromosomal abnormalities, I felt my heart race
and sink simultaneously. Sensing my panic (the only time during the
appointment this individual demonstrated any compassion) she asked me if
I was okay. I muttered something about being concerned about the 1 in
32. Before I could finish my sentence, she chimed in. "Don't worry about
that statistic. Those abnormalities aren't compatible with life."
In
that moment I felt as if my mind had imploded. I was floored by her
matter-of-fact, callous sounding response. I'm sure that dealing with
this information on a daily basis, one would run the risk of becoming
jaded. But in my eyes, not being compatible with life ranks pretty high
on the worry list! After that point I went numb and don't remember much
else that transpired. I was given prescriptions for further tests
because of my "advanced maternal age" (can you tell that diagnosis is
sticking in my craw) and left the office.
All
of the doctors I have seen since the first appointment have been
extremely compassionate, but I can't seem to shake the anxiety that was
introduced during my pregnancy debriefing. Rationally, I know that she
was just doing her job by providing me with information, but as somebody
who interacts with vulnerable individuals on a daily basis, I know
first hand that she needs to work on her delivery. I'm going to voice my
concerns and experiences with this interaction, but I'm going to wait
until after the baby is born. (I suppose part of me is worried about
alienating those who will eventually yield the pain relieving drugs
during labor.)
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