In the ongoing quest to make my life difficult, my OBGYN and Endocrinologist seem to be having a letter-writing war over whether or I not I visit a high-risk OB specialist. The Endo insists it's necessary (more than likely because she's liable), and my OBGYN sees no reason for it as he has treated me for 9 months. So finally last week my OBGYN showed me the Endo's requests and told me he didn't care either way if I wanted to see a specialist for my last ultrasound, that he would be glad to refer to me to get this Endo off his back (my words, not his). So I begrudgingly agreed.
The specialist, Dr. Stone, is in a different hospital. The waiting room was FILLED with people who looked like they needed "special care", if you know what I mean. After waiting 45 minutes and avoiding contracting hepatitis, we finally heard my name called.
"I'm the nurse, I'm going to ask you some questions about your medical history." You can imagine my uncontrollable jubilance for having to give another medical professional my medical history. I answered all her questions, wondering why there isn't some database somewhere that contains all my medical history for all these information-hungry people without taking up an hour and a half of my day. You can get my address and favorite food off the internet in 3 clicks. Why not what drugs I'm allergic to?
As with all medical professionals, to her I resembled a giant checked box with "Gestational Diabetes" written next to it. She described my risks, including a stillborn baby (thanks for bringing that up again), and encouraged how incredibly important it was that I keep my sugars under control. As she spoke, my husband could feel me posturing. I wanted to stand up and yell, "LADY! I KICKED INSULIN'S ASS. MY BLOOD PRESSURE IS BETTER THAN MOST OLYMPIC ATHLETES. I HAVEN'T HAD ICE CREAM IN 6 MONTHS. THERE'S YOUR MEDICAL HISTORY." She could tell I was incredibly annoyed and sped up the questioning. This was, admittedly, not my shining moment.
After waiting another 15 minutes to get into the ultrasound room, a lovely woman walked in and began covering my belly in goo and taking Abe's measurements faster than I could even watch them on the screen. "Femur, looks good. Heart, looks good. Head's down. Here's a foot. There's his package. (She really said that.) Head is big. Ok all set. The doctor will be in in a moment." By this point I'm thinking, hello? I came to you people because you're specialists. You're SPECIAL! Do something SPECIAL!
That's when Dr. Stone walked in. Dr. Stone is apparently Javier Bardem's incredibly hot, middle-aged uncle with an unbelievable Spanish accent. He began looking through the pictures with me on the screen and I listened to his pronunciation of every word, big and small, and probably giggled more than I have since high school. My husband could have chosen to be intimidated, but that's so not his style. He thought this was pretty much one of the coolest doctors ever, too. Dr. Stone even answered his iPhone in the middle of our conversation, hung up and said, "That was my wife. If I don't answer, she gets pissed off. You understand (motioning to David)." I love this guy.
And I love him even more when he tells me what he sees. A 6 pound 11 ounce baby boy in the 53rd percentile, measuring exactly where he should. His head is the only big part of him, but it's in the right spot and facing the right direction. He tells me my sugars are fine, the placenta is fine, and the baby is fine and not to worry. And then he looks at me and says, "You know what you need to do? Stop checking your sugar so much. Your sugars are fine. Relax." HOW MUCH DO WE LOVE HIM?
He checked our due date using an app on his iPhone and shook both of our hands before congratulating us and leaving the room. BOOYAH GIANT BABY THREATENERS. MY BABY IS NO GIANT! Now, the giant head could pose a small problem with the exit strategy I have in mind, but we're going to think positive, yes?