Taking charge

Sharing is caring!

Tomorrow is the first of the last doctor’s appointments I’ll have with my current OB. But not because I’m close to the end of my pregnancy with New Girl. (Even though technically, no matter how much I want to deny its approach, the end IS growing nigh.)

Tomorrow is the first of the last because at 28 weeks pregnant I’ve decided to switch care providers and hospitals.

After my last appointment, the one with Dr. Blowhard, unease grew in my belly almost as rapidly as New Girl has. I’ve played that appointment over and over in my head trying to figure out if I read things in the doctor’s words that he didn’t intend. In short, I just don’t think I did.

Last Tuesday I called my current OB’s office to ask a simple question–what happens if the doctor I do not want to see, Dr. Blowhard, is on call when I go into labor?

The receptionist didn’t have an answer. In fact, she seemed downright puzzled. Like she understood the idea that some women may prefer not to see certain doctors but no one had ever questioned the on-call practices before.

She referred me to the office manager.

He never called me back.

That was my sign.

Despite any reassurances I may have gotten from the doctor, my doctor, whose name is on the door, I know that staying with this practice will greatly inhibit my ability to VBAC this baby and for reasons I’ll explain in another post (one that isn’t being typed on my phone while I’m “coaching” at a high school basketball game) I desperately want to VBAC this baby.

I think in some ways I’ve known this entire pregnancy that a VBAC was made less likely by staying where I am right now. By staying comfortable.

I think I’ve tried to rely on naïveté to get me through this delivery when that’s anything but my usual approach to unknown situations. I’m not one to fly into the big things lightly.

And this, y’all, is a really big thing.

So last week I called the most highly recommended OB for VBAC mamas in the area and, with few questions asked, I became his new patient.

When the receptionist asked why I was seeking a transfer, I told her, simply, that I wanted to VBAC. There was no scoffing at my wishes or condescension for my desires. When I told her how far along I was, there was no balking, no “oh, we don’t take patients that far along.” No excuses.

There were no questions asked at all.

There was only acceptance.

So tomorrow I’ll wake up, shower, drink that orange drink they gave me at the last appointment, and drive myself to the office for the blood draw. And on Thursday I’ll go back to discuss the results. And as long as I passed the one-hour test when I check out I’ll turn in my request for a transfer of my medical records to a new practice. One with a doctor who believes in the kind of delivery I want–a delivery concerned not solely with the outcome of a healthy baby but also in the process of helping mothers–helping me–have the birth others tell them is unlikely or impossible.

One in which I am not labelled a failure no matter the outcome.