maternity bites (volume two)

Step one complete! It went a little something like this:

As a result of being weirdly uptight about punctuality and therefore consistently arriving at appointments at least forty-five minutes early, I am superb at killing time. My half hour in the waiting room is chock full of activity. First is the requisite contact-information-update marathon with the receptionist, which is always fun. Then: an iPod, a book, a journal, a camera (probably not a good idea to use that in this context), a phone, part of a newspaper, and a stack of mail that has been stuffed in my backpack for inspection going on three weeks now. If ever a person wanted to film a little clip about what it's like to have ADD, this would be the time and place. I read two pages, then open my journal. I write three things down, then find the paper. I open the paper but decide to go back to the book. I switch albums on the iPod and go back to the journal. Then I stop to bite my nails, which I only do the day after I cook because my hands smell like garlic, then I go back to the backpack for something new to look at. (You can trust that this adds up to me being very, very attractive.)

In the middle of my charmingly insane little routine, Cancer Lady makes an entrance. I am not being insensitive; she was superhero-ed out. Her bald head was covered by a neon pink bandana, and her sneakers were hot pink Reeboks reminiscent of a pair I had circa Paula Abdul. Hot pink spandexish pants were barely visible under her shiny fluorescent green floor length CAPE, on the back of which she had sewn (quite adeptly) giant fuzzy pink letters that spelled "Chemo Girl." Her shirt, which could only be seen for a split second when she unfurled her cape to take out her insurance card, said "Fuck Cancer."

She was totally upstaging me.

Now, at this point my brain does something that it does a lot, which is make me think funny things over which I have zero control. My iPod is playing the Decemberists, and my brain whispers to me, "Heh, Chemo Emo." And so I chuckle at my sick, sick little brain. And then The Worst Possible Thing happens, which is Cancer Lady's assumption that I am chuckling at her. Now, if Larry David created me (oh, would that it were) this would be super. But in real life making cancer patients feel bad is not funny.

...is it?

Anyway, I got saved by the nurse. This moment is always awkward, because she's waiting for me by the door and I have nine thousand things to pick up out of the three closest chairs over which I have draped my stuff. She's very nurse-ish, like a couch - well-worn, calming, cozy. She says her name and I immediately forget it. She puts me on the scale, and puts the weights where she thinks, approximately, they ought to go. This is my favorite part of the day.

Nay, the week.

She estimates that I weigh somewhere in the 110-115 range. Oh, sweet sweet sweet nurse, no longer the drudge and toil in my delight! I pray thee, thy news is good?

This poor woman was pushing the weight up pound by pound: 115. 116. 117. Finally I had to break it to her that the thing would need a good shove to the right before she was even close. And she said, "There's no way you're over one twenty, you're so tiny! You must be all muscle."

Let's just pause and enjoy the hell out of that for one second.

Two seconds....

Moving on.

She leaves me in the room to flex and feel my muscles in privacy until Dr. H gets in. When he finally knocks on the door I feel suddenly nervous. I feel like I have to sell him a car. He starts right in with an update, looking over my chart. A quick check in on all previous jottings down, inquiries, ailments, etc.

"How's the cough?" "Your foot all healed?" "Still teaching?"

Then I get the report back. "Ohhhhh kaaaayyyy, looks like, whoa! You've lost nine pounds since I last saw you. Everything okay?"

"You told me to lose ten pounds last time I saw you."

"Yeah, but no one ever actually DOES it. No troubles with eating disorders..."

"I have trouble acquiring them, yes."

He doesn't laugh at my jokes, which is a barely forgivable flaw. Otherwise, he's a super doctor.

We get to the end of our respective updates, and there is an awkward pause. He's just smiling all sweetness and serenity, head slightly cocked, looking as Willie Nelsonish as ever. And I get flustered. I'm not sure how to say...uh...

"I want to baby proof my body."

So I just say that.

His face doesn't change; I have no idea what he's going to say. I'm pretty sure all doctors train their faces to make the same calm, half-smiling super benevolent and understanding expression in every situation. It makes sense. Otherwise they would constantly struggle with what to do with their faces when they have to say stuff like, "You have six weeks to live." I know my face insists upon smiling a big toothy grin when I give bad news, which is why I never made it through med school.

He says, "And you've thought about this..."

I say, "Since I figured out that babies come from women and not birds."

He says, "Mmmhmm," and looks at the chart again. He points out that my gynecologist can perform the surgery herself, and asks if I liked her. I try to remember her. Is this how men feel? I really can't conjure up an image of this person who has seen me naked. I don't even remember her name. She gave me her card. Never called her.

Whatever, I'm sure she's nice. So I say, "Oh Doctor Baaaaaaandlebaum. Of course, yes, she's lovely."

He says, "Well, then your next step will be to meet with her, she'll want to spend a lot of time with you, talk it over, maybe several times, and decide if she will perform the surgery."

I must have glowered, because he jumped in with:

"I'm sure you feel like you are jumping through hoops, and I apologize."

I assert that, yes, I indeed do feel that I am jumping through hoops and that the whole process offends me more than a little bit.

He says, "Well, Kelly, you have had the pleasure of knowing you for twenty seven years. We only see you for a few hours each year. So we've got to make sure that we know the you that you know, so we can perform the surgery with confidence. We have to protect ourselves, too, you know."

God damn it, Dr. WillieNelsonlookalike, that is kind of a good point.

Back in the lobby, Cancer Lady had disappeared and several patients pace or watch Ellen Degeneres do a funny dance on the television. The receptionist takes the paper upon which Dr. H. had written "27 y/0 seeks tubal ligation - est. four consult pre-proc" and calls down to women's health. Her phone has one of those shoulder rests so that she can be on hold and type at the same time, which she does. She never moves her neck, and rolls her eyes up at me when I am supposed to answer a question.

Type type type.

"Hi, it's Linda in Specialties. Mmmhmm. I have a patient here who needs an appointment with Dr. Bandlebaum for a...a...tube? Tubal Ligahhhh...yeah."

Long. Pause. Type type type.

Eyes roll to me.

"You're sure?"

I say, "What?"

She says, blinking several times, "She wants to know if you're sure?"

I say, "Yes, I am sure."

Eyes roll back down.

"She says she's sure."

Eyes roll back to me.

"March 17th at 1 pm with the Family Planner and then at 1:45 with Dr. Bandlebaum."

"Works for me."

Eyes roll back to the computer.

Type type type.

The printer pushes out my appointment, and it is handed in my direction with a quick "have a nice day" directed at the computer screen. Ahead of me is: a two-month wait, the promise of at least four "consultation" visits for twenty five bucks a pop, and an awkward St. Patrick's Day reunion with the gynecologist with whom, it seems, I have already been intimate. One thing is certain: Nothing will make me more resolute in my decision to bring zero children into this world than a parade of drunk Catholics. Slainte.