Okay, now I'm angry

I'm not sure if it's because we're coming into the home stretch, or because Christmas is almost here, or simply because hugely pregnant women tend to be *slightly* oversensitive, hormonal wackjobs...but after trying really hard - well, most of the time, anyway - to be accepting of the ups and downs of this strange, crazy, yet blessed journey, I finally broke down today and got pissed.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be angry. I want to be perfectly happy to walk into that horrible maternity mill of an OB office and hop up gleefully onto the paper-covered shrine to the almighty yoni-exam. I want to be serene and embracing of the 20 minutes (which is really 30, by the time they remember me) spent each week strapped to the venerated CEFM, arguing with an 8 mth. old fetus who has the hiccups that she simply *must* keep her heartbeat under the transducer. I want to quiver with the thrill of being told by an OB who was probably born after I graduated from high school that "waiting" (i.e. the 2+ hours I spend in the office for a 20 minute NST and a 10 minute prenatal) is part of getting the good care I need. Oh how I long to experience joy and wonder in being told - not asked, told - when they will shove their grubby little gloved paws up my most private regions, soas to be able to write down in my chart whether my cervix is cooperating (it's allowed passage to 4 of my 5 babies so far, the last one being 10 lbs. and born with 7 minutes of pushing, I think we're good, thanks, unless you've never seen a really nice one, then I may consider making an exception for educational purposes...).

Yes indeed, the "me" that I wish I could be wants to be okay with all of this. Unfortunately, the me I really am has already had the experience of true mother/baby care in the hands of midwives...I have been through pregnancy the way it is meant to be - a joyous, empowering, character-building path, accompanied by - if one is very lucky - a loving and skilled midwife. It is thanks to this very care that I knew I needed medical help before something bad actually happened. Ironically, it is because of this care that I ended up in an impersonal system where no one notices if I just don't show up, no one remembers my specific situation (barring the CNM, who actually does seem to possess some level of compassion), and I am just a cog in the wheel if I make noise about protocol.

Nothing truly horrible happened today, but I suppose what did happen simply brought to my attention the fact that I am no longer in Kansas, and caused my grief to surface. I was already irate from all the waiting, the two of my children that I had with me were bouncing off the walls (as children will do after 2 hours in a very confined space, as *I* was doing after 2 hours in a confined space), but I needed to stay for my appointment because I had to discuss changing my medication dose with the doctor. She was the last of the three that I had yet to meet, and being that I could tolerate the other two, and actually like the CNM, I didn't anticipate too much of an issue.

Now, allow me to preface this next part by pointing out that I have been going to this office twice a week for the last 5 weeks. My chart is lengthy, the nurses all know me, my situation is fairly unique - there should be no reason that everyone is not aware of the circumstances of my pregnancy. I watch Dr. P in the hallway going over my chart for what seems a thorough length of time. She then enters the room and greets my children, ages 5 and 8, with an enthusiastic "So, are you all ready for a new baby brother or sister?"

Needless to say, this did not kick us off to a good start. I tried to cut her off as soon as I figured out what she was saying, but as my children stared blankly I could feel the anger rising inside me. I'm sure everyone would have their own personal way of explaining adoption to their other children. I have chosen to be very careful NOT to refer to this baby as their little sister. We have talked at length about the baby, how she got here, why she is here, and why she is going to go live with our friends instead of staying with us. It's not something I try to sweep under the rug, but I am cautious in my choice of words as I feel it's important to help them frame the situation appropriately in their minds.

Once I had picked my jaw up off the floor, we went on to discuss other issues. I discovered that my plans to avoid coming up positive on the (so I thought) upcoming GBS screen were moot, because they had already found GBS growing in my initial cultures. They expect me to comply with antibiotics, and I most likely will simply to avoid a fight, but as I was already in bitch-mode, I made sure to express my discontent with essentially being pressured to go along, when the fact is that an equal number of babies die from antibiotic-resistant infections as do from GBS infection (and while you're pumping me full of abx, why don't you shove your hands up my yoni a few more times, I'm sure that'll keep the bacteria away from the baby). But alas, I know what happens to babies in hospitals when moms refuse to "cooperate" (spinal tap, anyone?), and the last thing I want is for this precious little one to be further traumatized in the transition to her new family.

Now don't worry, if this hasn't been a stressful enough visit, it gets better. Oh yes - she pulls out the age card! I spoke about my concerns for my health - my blood pressure is continuing to rise (hence the increase in meds), and I do not feel particularly healthy. I feel "off", for lack of a better description. So she goes on to say that she agrees with my choice to switch from homebirth plans to a hospital birth, the blood pressure problems notwithstanding - especially because after age 35, you know, there are a lot more things that tend to go wrong. Apparently my expiry date has been reached and everything's gone sour...

I don't really blame her...she is simply parroting what was hammered into her brain during her residency. She's saying what she's supposed to say. What she doesn't realize is that the past decade of my life has been spent sorting out the bullshit from the truth in these kinds of claims, and I am well aware that the magical age of 35 was essentially chosen arbitrarily because in the general area of that age, risks of certain things *start* to go up, *gradually*. One does not turn 35 and become a dangerous exploding baby machine overnight. These things take some time.

In any event, I tried to make nice in the end and leave on a somewhat civil note. I pointed out that I had chosen this practice - one that is 40 miles from my house - because I had been assured by local homebirth midwives that I would be treated with respect there (hint, hint). She seemed to catch my drift...I hope, anyway.

So what is the point of all this rambling...well, I guess it's that this unpleasant encounter jolted out of hibernation my anger at the whole situation. I want to stomp my feet and scream that this isn't fair. I hate it, I hate it....I hate going there and being in agreement with people that I have spent a decade fighting because of the way they manage normal pregnancy. Except, now I'm not having a normal pregnancy, so I can't fight against them for *me*. I hate feeling like shit and taking pills that make me feel even more like shit, to control something that's happening inside me, that I really can't control at all. I hate being less than the mother I want to be, and I hate being resentful of something that is going to give people I care deeply about a lot of joy.

It is a much more complex thing than I ever could have dreamed - not in the way that everyone seems to expect (still, the questions come, "do you really think you can give your baby away?"). The fact that this baby was meant for someone else's family is the *only* thing that has remained static in the last 8 months. Everything else? Changing all the time.