Are You Sure You’re Alright?

Folks, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this.  I’m not talking about regret, or second thoughts or even nerves over being a mother.  I’m not sure I can withstand the doctors visits.

I’m a complete wimp.  There’s no excuse for it.  I’m terrified of doctors, nurses, waiting rooms, those stupid crinkly sheets they make you sit on while scooting your butt to the end.  No, further, just a little bit more.  I don’t like to make appointments or attend them.  I don’t want to get prescriptions refilled or my blood pressure taken or my ears checked.  The only thing I don’t mind is needles.  Whatever, I’m weird.

That was one of a lot of reasons why we picked D’s uterus instead of mine.  It wasn’t the most significant reason, but for me, it was one of the most compelling ones.  I think I still have a little grief over not being the one to carry the child.  But when we go to the doctor together, I nearly faint and I remember that there’s a reason we picked her.  Or rather, we decided not to pick me.

I think I was okay for most of the first visit.  We sat in a sunny office and chatted with a doctor about our options.  No problem.  Things started to go downhill when we stepped into the exam room and the nurse told her to take everything off, don the robe and prepare for the pelvic exam.  See, it even sounds awful when you say it.  Maybe I’m overreacting.  At least, that’s what I told myself as I sat next to her while the doctor prodded her stomach and poked around her insides.  As an aside, it was fantastic that I was able to be there at all.

But seeing her lie there on her back, an ultrasound machine next to her with her name on the screen, it filled me with heart-pounding anxiety.  I’m so amazed that she can handle these visits with ease, with a smile.  It might be my pride in her that keeps me from falling over in a dead faint.  It has until now, of course.

The other day we popped over for an xray with contrast to see whether the inside was in as good shape as the outside.  I had read it would hurt.  I’ve had doctors fiddle with my cervix before.  It hurts.  I’ve had contrast xrays.  Though in my bladder, not my uterus, I know it hurts.  And because it was an xray, I knew I couldn’t be there with her.  Frankly, I’ve had enough radiation in the last five years to light up a small planet, so it was probably for the best.  She’s brave, but it did hurt.  I could see it on her face afterward.

While she was in there, hurting, I sat in the waiting room on the edge of panic, both terrified for her for the procedure and beyond relieved that it wasn’t me.  How cowardly is that?  I’m sure I should be this upstanding pinnacle of supportive partner…hood/ship/dom whatever.  And I’m a quivering mess in the waiting room.

I’m sure I can make it through this.  I’m not going to faint.  Or throw up.  Or dissolve into tears.  Or any of the other disastrous things I do when faced with doctors.  I’m not.  Right?  I’m not.

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