Monday I had my first doctor’s appointment. I had been bleeding a little on Sunday night and resigned myself to the idea of miscarrying again. Being diabetic, my chances for miscarriage/birth defects are freakishly high, so I didn’t think I was being unusually pessimistic. Antonio the family doctor agreed, so I was given a “go to specialist, go directly to specialist” pass and spent the next few hours dozing outside a medical office, waiting for the nurses to slaughter my name.
Despite understanding that I spoke no Spanish, the hospital attendants shooed Ruyman out. They not only banished him from the waiting room, but he was kicked out of the entire gynocology wing of the hospital. He had to sit behind two sets of fire doors and down a hall just to wait for me. When the nurse finally called my name, I made it known that the only Spanish I knew was, “Where is my husband?” and there was no way I was going anywhere without him. The nurse grudgingly gave in, summoned Ruyman in from outer darkness, and escorted us both to meet the resident manning the department at the moment.
Now this may be a bit of a stereotype, but most Spanish men (and some women) start getting facial hair as early as conception. Ruyman grew a very respectable mustache at nine years old and a full beard at 16. So when I say that the resident doctor was sporting a scraggly preadolescent mustache and a patchy, soul-less soul patch, it’s a big deal. It means that essentially, my doctor was 12. A nice 12 year-old. A well-educated 12 year-old. But still, a 12 year-old.
After consulting with the baby doctor, nurses sent Ruyman and I back to our respective corners to wait for the technicians who were going to do the echo. (I’d like to point out that for a place full of pregnant people, the waiting room was shockingly devoid of convenient locations to pee or puke). When it was time to get the echo, Ruyman came in with me and the women technicians immediately went into a frenzy. “You can’t be in here! Women only!” It took several minutes to reassure them that he had violated their inner sanctum for good reason. Even then, they wouldn’t let him pass the partition where they administered the echo. He had to stay in the office and shield his innocence, which is funny since his intimate knowledge of my anatomy is what landed us here in the first place.
Like any other procedure where bits of things are shoved into orifices they don’t belong in, getting an echo is rather uncomfortable. I reconciled myself to it, though, because attached to what looked like a goo-and-condom-covered printer cable was a radar screen. Even if it hurt, I was going to be able to see the little flesh ball that’s the next member of our family. Except they moved the screen so I couldn’t see a thing. Instead, the three women poking around downstairs made comments like “Hey, a backwards cervix with uterine polyps! How distinctive!” (So my Spanish is a little better than I let on, but I'd fake blindness before I submit to the idea of doing this without Ruyman holding my hand.) In the end, the baby is fine, but I have to go to another doctor to get meds for morning sickness.
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