Dear Idiots in Charge,

Seriously? Is this how we're going to treat our veterans? I'm not, like, living in the Twilight Zone or anything? Did Tricare Reserve Select, our military health insurance, really tell my husband - the one who spent nearly two years in Iraq and ten years of his life in the army - that when he's honorably discharged in May we won't have an extension in coverage unless we want to pay upwards of two thousand dollars a month? You're telling me I have that right?

You see, that would have been nice to know. Remember when we called you last week to pre-authorize anywhere from fifty to seventy five thousand dollars a month in NICU care for our daughter who will be born prematurely and with significant health problems? Did you think maybe we want to suck those charges up on our own in a few months? Did you think that we have offshore accounts set up for any additional medical costs stemming from her prematurity and extremely low birth weight? Perhaps you thought we'd perform any surgeries she may need ourselves? Or that we'd just bag the home nursing that might be necessary if she has persistent lung problems because we can't find an extra thousand dollars a day?

When James starts his new job in Duluth, they'll want him there ninety days before giving him benefits. He cannot start in his new position until May. Though I don't feel I'll meet with any greater success necessarily, I thought I'd appeal to you before lobbying congress to extend the calendar this spring so we won't have a lapse in coverage. Because, Tricare Reserve Select, this is absolutely appalling to me. We may have a little bit of money, but we don't seventy five grand a month. We don't have the resources of, say, YOU, a government insurance agency. What we do have is a family that has made huge sacrifices for this country. We've lived through sleepless nights of wondering whether James is alive. We've lived through torturously long separations. We've played the sometimes pretty crappy hand the army has dealt us for ten years. And we've done it all with a smile on our faces humming the Star Spangled Banner. What more do you want, a pound of flesh?

Best,
One Pissed Off Army Wife

Joshua has this stuffed koala bear puppet thing-y, and he has given him the name Pine Cone. Not sure where that came from. Come to think of it, I'm also not sure if it's Pine Cone or Pinecone. Huh. But I stray from the point. Josh does not take two steps without Pine Cone. He sleeps with him, he eats with him, he carries him around all day. He wants to take him in the bath tub, but I'm too mean to let him.

So while I'm navigating this terrifying course of high risk pregnancy, bed rest, twenty four hundred appointments a week at the doctor's office, and trying to prepare for having a premature baby, Josh is spending a lot of time with my grandparents. They've been wonderful, they love Josh and he, thankfully, loves to spend time with them.

But.

He has transformed into something of a stink factory because his routine is all mess up. His daddy isn't here yet, he's separated from his mommy a lot of days, he doesn't have his Elmo sheets. It's a crisis only a two year old can fully appreciate. So he acts up. Big deal, he's two. His life has been cast into turmoil. I'm not concerned about it all that much.

But.

He gets away with a lot. Yesterday while I spent the afternoon with my perinatologist, Joshua, Pine Cone, and Grandma "Bacon" spent the afternoon together. Grandma Buesgen, or Grandma Bacon if you're Johsua, is so much fun. They're really quite a pair. After he gets over his inital reluctance to part with me, he couldn't care less that I'm gone. I haven't yet figured out if that should please me or upset me. Huh. But I once again stray from the issue at hand.

I was gone several hours, and Josh was napping peacefully by the time I returned home. Grandma left soon after she gave me the standard report of how darling and wonderful and well behaved he is. I know. He's simply the most amazing child on earth, and it's nice that others recognize that.

But.

She called me about twenty minutes later to tell me that when he wakes up I should not freak out and rush to the emergency room over the horrendous looking angry red rash on his belly and hands. Because it isn't a rash at all. It's marker. He somehow managed to find a marker in the house (why do I have a damn marker?) and colored all over himself. It's amazing how quickly he can carry out his devious little plans; he accomplishes his evil mission before you even know he's begun.

So.

He woke up and I asked him, "Joshua, why did you color on your tummy?"

"No mama, Josh-a good boy!"

"I know you're a good boy honey, but you did color on your tummy. I think that was a little naughty, don't you?"

"No, mama! Josh-a good boy! Pine Cone do it!"

"Pine Cone?"

"Mama, Pine Cone color tummy! Pine Cone naughty!"

Ah. Well, I might have known. That Pine Cone's a little hellion. Joshua is a perfect angel. I never should have doubted it.

Phew. My first appointment with the perinatologist went very well, especially considering what I was expecting. I am back home instead of in a hospital bed, which is huge. She even modified my bed rest so I can have longer periods of light activity during the day. And by light activity I pretty much mean walking to the mail box and back, but even that much feels simply awesome.

I was scheduled to have an amniocentisis today, which had me positively shaking in my Guccis, but it turned out all that quivering was for naught. I opted not to do it. The doctor thinks that there is a less than one per cent chance of Ella having a genetic disorder and that there isn't reason to deliver in the next five days until my next biophysical profile ultrasound. So, the risk of my water breaking after the procedure outweighed the benefits of ruling out genetic disorders the doctor would be shocked to see and her lungs have at least one more week to mature.

Actually, the perinatologist is optimistic that I can stay pregnant at least another three weeks. As long as Ella continues to pass her biophysical profiles, which monitor her heartbeat, movement, muscle tone, and blood flow through the umbilical cord she should be able to stay put until I am thirty three weeks along, which is excellent.

The wrench in the plans may come in the form of this problem of having a mature placenta. In addition to it being too mature, it also has some calcifications, which if they get worse, can mean Ella has to be delivered.

But overall I feel like I got some good news today. I am cautiously optimistic that I'll be pregnant another three weeks. The world that was only yesterday crashing down around me has decided to grant me a stay of execution.

It's a good feeling. It's like seeing a sparkling rainbow after a devastating storm. It may still be raining, even pouring, but there's hope. There are brighter days ahead.

I find myself with little strength left to write this. The more I tell this story, this latest news, the more I feel myself buckling under the sheer weight of it. But here I go...one more time.

I had my sixth biophysical profile ultrasound today. The last time they recorded her size was three and a half weeks ago. Today was the second official measurement. In that amount of time, almost a month, she has gained five paltry ounces. She went from being in the fourth percentile for size at her gestational age (which was bad enough) to being in the less than third percentile. Additionally, she is no longer growing proportionally. Her head is fairly significantly bigger than her abdomen and femur. To give you an idea of her size, the distance from her hip bone to her knee is a mere five centimeters. What is that, like two inches? She's about the size of a baby kitten.

The other major issue, because apparently there just weren't enough, is that my placenta (really pissed I had to take that off the list of words I don't say, because it is such a horrible little word) is as mature as you would expect it to be if I were full term. This means that as poorly as it was functioning before, it is worse now. It is only designed to work for forty weeks, and for whatever reason, mine decided to retire early. This is restricting Ella's access to vital nutrients and oxygen that should be filtered through the placenta (ugh, twice in one paragraph. Yikes) and is a big part of the reason she isn't growing.

Tomorrow I see the perinatologist for an amniocentisis to check Ella's lung maturity, other problems or disorders that may be causing the "Intrauterine Growth Restriction" we've been labeled as having, and also to determine just how much longer it is safe to be pregnant with this piece of crap placenta that cannot be prevailed upon to do it's freaking job. OK, that's three times I had to use that word. I have to go cast up my accounts now. Can't there be prettier words in the medical community? Can I help them out with some euphamisms for stuff like that?

Needless to say, this news today was pretty devastaing. Not at all what we were hoping for, but if I'm being honest with you, it's also not unexpected. But hear that song I put on this page? (All by myself, I might add. I'm becoming pretty computer savvy in my forced inactivity) As the doctors were bombarding me with this news, I closed my eyes and felt myself being wrapped in a strange, quiet sort of peace with these words running through my head. If you have the time, read through them; I'm going to write them out for you. If not, at least listen to the whole song. It's beautiful, and the message behind it is what is getting me through the day.


I was sure by now,
God you would have reached down
And wiped [my] tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again I say, "Amen"
And it's still raining

But as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain,
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands
And praise the God who gives
And takes away.

I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hands
You never left my side
Though my heart is torn,
I will praise you in this storm.

I remember when
I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry and You
Raised me up again.
My strength is almost gone
How can I carry on
When I can't find You?

But as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain,
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls,
I'll raise my hands
And praise the God who gives
And takes away.

I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hands
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn,
I will praise you in this storm.

It's a nervous morning. The sun hasn't yet risen, but I can't sleep for thinking of what's going to happen today. I've been up for hours, tossing and turning, watching Lifetime movies in the middle of the night, and praying. Hoping. For good news today.

Today? I have my sixth biophysical ultrasound, and it will be the second one in which Ella's exact measurements are taken and we see exactly how much, if at all, my little pea in the pod has grown. We may also have a diagnosis...

Or not.

But I will know if she's bigger than James' hand yet. Or if she's even going to be before she's born.

I can't help but balk a little at this day as I face it alone. I wish James was here. This is news and crisis we should be facing together, but circumstances prevent it. I know he's doing everything he can to get here sooner, but I wish it could be today.

Today is a big day.

Dear Joshua,

Hello, my sweet boy. We had a rough morning, didn't we? It's funny how my mind is divided, because part of me wants you to be old enough to understand what's happening, and part of me is glad you aren't. All you should be worrying about is Bert and Ernie and keeping track of your stuffed koala Pine Cone and playing with your trucks.

Where did you come up with the name Pine Cone anyway? And plus, am I to understand that your orange cow with blue horns Grandma just bought you is named Cute? Let me just say that you are the cutest. boy. alive. Careful, I may just eat you up one of these days because I don't know what else to do with your cuteness.

But I digress.

Did you know Grandma and Poppa "Bacon" are mama's grandma and poppa? Pretty sweet, huh? They love to play with you every day, and I know you have so much fun at their house. They're helping mama out because I have to take special care of the tiny baby in my tummy.

But I miss you! We've never spent our days apart before, and I know that it's getting old. I totally understand why you refused to put your shoes on this morning and came and hid under the covers with me so you wouldn't have to go. I'm sorry I had to give away your hiding spot. I want nothing more than to have you with me all the time again.

Next week I think we'll change up our plan a little bit. Maybe, at least for a few of the days, Grandma "Bacon" can come to our house to play with you so we can be together. Would that be better? I'd like that better.

By the way, thumbs up on the whole "Bacon" thing. I know how tough it is to say "Buesgen" [pronounced Biskin] so your attempt to take it on at two years old is nothing short of valiant. You're a genius.

And thank you, sweetheart, for leaving Cute with me today so I wouldn't be alone. I promise I'll take good care of him. I'll see you tonight when your other Grandma gets home from work.

How do you keep track of all these grandmas, anyway?

I love you Munchkin Man. You're my favorite boy in the whole world. Promise promise our lives will go back to normal very soon. We can hang in there. I said "promise promise" so you know it's engraved in stone now. That's how we do it in this family, thanks to you. You taught us the value of repeating a word to make it that much more meaningful. I mean, if it was just a singleton promise, I could squeeze out of it fairly easily, right? But backing out of a double up? A promise squared? I don't even want to imagine the consequences.

In the meantime, try to remember what it says in your favorite book about Mommy and Daddy and the new baby. No matter where your mommy is, she will be thinking of you where ever she goes and where ever you are. Because you are always special in your mommy's heart.

Love,
Mommy

If I could lay out the series of the last few weeks on a big piece of paper to look through them again, I would take a very sharp pair of scissors and snip yesterday from history.

My heart was racing. My blood pressure was through the roof. My whole person was filled with fear, anxiety, and just the least little touch of hope. I thought my baby was going to make her way into the world. Almost eleven weeks early. So, that was enough to scare this mama clean out of her Guccis.

*Sidebar* Even though I really did wear my Gucci flats to the hospital yesterday - not because I was overly concerned with my appearance but because they were the first thing I found in my mad dash to get out of the house - the "student intern" who was "in charge" of my intake still asked me if I was on WIC and informed me that Medicaid would cover my hospital expenses. Sigh.

Lesson learned - She has to say those things. It's not, unfortunately, a private hospital. In the future, remember that it is not wise to search about frantically for something to throw at her head.

You'll recall from yesterday that Ella wasn't moving at all on the ultrasound. Even after following the doctor's instructions to eat and then rest for two hours counting her movements, she still didn't budge. I felt only two little fluttery kicks all afternoon, so when I went back in to get checked, they admitted me to labor and delivery. Except they don't call it that here. They call it the Birthing Center. Shudder. Makes me think of midwives and bathtubs and inscence and the banging of native drums. Good for you if that's what you're into, but I'm a girl that wants to be pumped full of drugs and awoken peacefully when it's over, thank you very much.

*Sidebar* This is a teaching hospital. Which means there will be med students there. They will be expected to take part in my care so they can learn.

Lesson Learned - It is, in all likelihood, a good thing that new people are learning to practice medicine. While I may prefer not to have a ten year old in charge of my high risk pregnancy, they are supervised by doctors that have not recently graduated from pre-school. So it may not, in the future, be appropriate to ask where the med student's mommy is and inform them that they should go to the lost and found for help becuase said mommy is likely frantic she can't find her baby.

I really thought they were going to deliver her yesterday. When I came in they were setting up an incubator outside my room, actually.

*Sidebar* I freaking panicked.

Lesson Learned - Panic does not help the situation remain calm. It makes things worse. It may, in fact, cause me to say, lash out at the "student intern" and the Doogie Houser-esque med student.

I was monitored and tested for hours, the little students were paraded about on their little field trip to labor and delivery. Someone even gave them lab coats and stethescopes to make them feel like real doctors. It was cute. Med students, indeed.

*Sidebar* In the end, it was the med students that saved my fat ass. Because they took sooooooooo looooooong to march in and out of my room and ask me the same. effing. questions. forty thousand times, Ella totally rebounded. Her heartbeat was exactly where it should have been the entire time, and she suddenly decided it was time to start moving and grooving and was able to score eight out of eight on her biophysical profile.

Lesson Learned - Even though their timidity, lack of knowledge and experience, and continually asking me if I'm a smoker (ANSWER'S STILL NO!) annoyed me to no end, it is probably up to me to now write a little note of apology to those med students for all of the, um, let's call it discourtesy I served to them. Come to think of it, I should probably send flowers.

So I'm still pregnant. I'll now be having ultrasounds more often than just once a week to check her growth, development, and overall health. I can deal with that. I feel like maybe we're on a bit of an upswing here.

Still and all, "lessons learned" notwithstanding, I am not giving birth at the freaking teaching hospital.

He is sometimes called the Great Physician. Good thing Ella and I are His patients, because wow, do we need a miracle.

There comes a time in the midst of crisis when terror strikes at your heart so fiercely that all you can do is let go the grip you have so tightly on what you imagine is your control only to allow yourself to be swept up and carried along by the Heavenly Father, the Great Physician, and realize that He's been doing so all along. He is who He is, no matter where I am.

Good thing.

Today that moment came for me when the ultrasonographer suddenly stopped chattering about everything and nothing because she knows my situation and is trying to keep my spirits up. She became silent. And still. She checked and rechecked, and brought a second pair of eyes into the room. They didn't give me an answer when I asked what the problem was. But I'm not an idiot. Maybe I'm not a physician, but I'm not stupid. I've had several ultrasounds. I knew she was supposed to be moving. It was obvious she wasn't.

I haven't felt her move much all day, but that's not necessarily abnormal; I don't notice much of the movement because of her tiny size. She's always been extremely active on the ultrasound before. But not today.

So I had to drink an energy drink. I had to roll about on the table, maneuvering my bulky belly back and forth in front of God and everybody. I had to get up and move around. I had to lay on each side. I had to endure the ultrasonographer pressing down on my stomach with a motion similar to CPR to try to get Ella to "wake up".

Babies in the womb do have sleep patterns. She very well may have just been in a deep sleep. Her heart rate was normal and her chest was expanding and contracting as she "breathed" amniotic fluid. But she wouldn't budge. We tried for over a half an hour to coax her into moving, but all we got was one little flutter of her left leg.

That was almost two hours ago. They told me to go home, eat a big lunch and have something sugary, lie down for two hours and count her movements. They wanted more than ten in the last two hours. I've felt two. So I am to give it one more half hour and then return for another ultrasound. I don't know what's going to happen.

I do know that I am at peace. I am resting in the care of the Great Physician, I am holding on to her strong heartbeat, and I am, at least for this one moment in time, strong enough to face whatever is thrown at me this afternoon. I have gone from living week to week to living minute to minute. That's going to have to be enough.

Another week has come and gone. I'm preparing for more news from the doctor tomorrow morning. Right about now is the time I can't stop myself from feeling anxious, from worrying about what I'm going to hear.

It's always better to know.

I keep repeating that to myself. I don't always find myself very convincing. It's a curious position to be in, really. Right now my only knowledge is that from last week, which is that for now, it's safer to remain pregnant. I know she hasn't grown yet, but her muscle tone is good and she's hiccuping which means she's practicing a breathing rhythm. I know that her heart beat is strong and she's moving around with enough frequency to be in the normal range. I know I have an insane amount of heart burn even though my diet consists mainly of brown rice and whole wheat pasta.

But in twelve-ish hours I could have a whole new set of information. It's difficult for me to keep track of her movement, because she's so tiny I don't feel much of it. The way we know she's moving enough is because we see her tiny little body squirming all over the place on the ultrasound. I don't know if her heartbeat has remained in the range it should have over the last week. I don't know whether she's grown, though if she has it will be nothing short of a miracle. I know I certainly haven't gotten any bigger. Not where it counts anyway. If only her growth was proportionate to the size of my ever increasing ass. My daughter and I will have a talk about that one day...

It's always better to know.

But a big part of me wants to just wrap myself in the, if not excellent then at least tolerable news from last week, and subsist on it. Irrational though it may be, I want to work from there, from a point I know I can handle, because I don't know how to do anything else. I don't know how to give birth to a baby at 29 and a half weeks. I don't know how to see her in the NICU and not be able to hold her, to fix her, to make her well. I don't know how to keep it together for the sake of a husband who is trying so hard to keep it together for me.

The other day when we were talking, we figured out that if she's born now, or later for that matter but without much growth, she'll fit snugly in his hand. She measures the distance almost exactly from James' wrist to the tip of his middle finger. I look around at these little tiny clothes I've bought and the little tiny diapers I've already stocked up on and I think, these are way to big to fit on James' hand.

There are times I feel almost like myself, almost like a real person with a normal pregnancy. But the fear quickly crowds back in. The anxiety of what may happen in the next few weeks and the guiltly feelings that I can't squelch, even though I understand intellectually that this isn't my fault. My heart is not very intellectual. I can't prevent it from wanting to take this problem on and turn it on itself. If only I'd eaten more and gained weight at the beginning of my pregnancy. If only I hadn't had the margarita before I had any clue I was expecting. If only I hadn't forgotten my prenatal vitamins those times. If those baths I took only weren't so hot. If only if only if only.

But I must work from an informed position. Whatever I find out tomorrow I will deal with accordingly. I will do whatever I can for my daughter. Tomorrow I will have more information, hopefully some good news.

But whatever it is? It's always better to know.

Now that I'm starting to get some strength back, well kinda, it's beginning to irk me how everything important in my life right now seems to be spinning out of control. I feel like some jerk has my life on the end of a piece of fishing line, and every time I see it and try to pick it up, he snaps it away from me and I have to chase after it again. So, not a big fan of that. I have decided then, to begin to handle some things I can control. Hopefully.

ANNOYING CRAP TO FIX: Being on bed rest is not very conducive to taking care of myself...some days I feel like there's no point in even getting dressed. Not surprisingly, however, feeling like a dumpy slob who wears her pajamas all day isn't helping my attitude. So...
PLAN OF ACTION: Force myself to heft my ass into the shower and real clothes every single day. Brush my hair. Shave my legs...well, the parts I can reach anyway.

ANNOYING CRAP TO FIX: Even properly dressed and coiffed, it's difficult to find hope most days. I suspect that my doom and gloom attitude is about 90% what's going on in my life and 10% that I've been in Duluth for three and a half weeks and I've seen the sun shine once.
PLAN OF ACTION: Write a strongly worded letter to the sun. It'll go something like this:

Dear Sun,

How about putting on a jersey and hopping in for the final play? Get me? No? Not picking up what I'm putting down? Allow me to put it another way. Shine, asshole! You have one damn job, you've been doing it your whole life, so let's make it happen, huh?

Best,
Little Miss in Control

ANNOYING CRAP TO FIX: Since I do have permission to spend some time in the swimming pool, which is my favorite activity while pregnant, it would be nice to have a bathing suit with me. I don't. Why would I pack a bathing suit to visit Minnesota in the dead of this dreary winter? I now regret my decision.
PLAN OF ACTION: Buy a freaking swimsuit, dummy.

Yeah, I'm keeping it together. Heh.

In a manner of speaking anyway. There's really nothing to report; although I guess they do say "no news is good news". So I have that going for me, which is nice. There hasn't been any change from last week other than my amniotic fluid levels have risen slightly, which is very good.

She still hasn't grown. Right now she should weigh a little over three pounds and be anywhere from ten to thirteen inches long. She weighs about a pound and half and is, in their best estimation, just about seven inches in length. This puts her in the fourth percentile for her gestational age.

So I am to remain pregnant for at least another week; each week I stay pregnant is a week in our favor. The doctor would like to get me to at least 32 weeks, and anything beyond that is a bonus. Let's all pray for that bonus, shall we?

In the meantime, I do have some great pictures of her to gaze at lovingly. She's absolutely gorgeous, this daughter of mine. Looks just like me, if I may say so.

Now that Ella could be born any time, it is occuring to me how woefully unprepared I am. I mean, I've done my fair share of shopping, but I don't have a car seat yet. I don't have her new crib. (Josh's was an heirloom that's traditionally been used for the first born of the first born). Plus, I want her to have a special girly one; one that I will save for her when she brings her son or daughter home some day. God willing.

I don't have preemie clothes. I don't have preemie diapers. In fact, I don't even know where to buy them; I've never noticed them in any store. Her room isn't done in the new house...actually it hasn't even been started yet.

When I came to Minnesota I was planning on returning to Bozeman until May, but now I'm here to stay it occurs to me I am without all the baby stuff of Josh's I was planning on using again, like the swing. The bassinet. The breast pump. Bowie B. - who was my stuffed puppy when I was an infant.

You see, I thought I had all this time. I thought all of this stuff was going to fall into place in the next eleven weeks, instead of, say, the next eleven hours. Or eleven days. Or whenever. It's the not knowing that makes all this so difficult.

And then it occurs to me that if she's born that soon, well, I won't need to worry about a car seat for awhile, will I?

My life has been turned completely upside down. My baby isn't growing. She's in the fourth percentile, actually, for her gestational age. My amniotic fluid is low. I'm in Minnesota, my husband is in Montana, and he can't move here until May. He can visit, but he can't come to stay for three more months. I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't think. I can't eat. I can't form words on this page that convey anything close to the level of despair I feel at this moment, wondering if my daughter will survive. I'm having weekly ultrasounds to monitor her progress. Soon we'll need to make a decision about whether she's safer or more able to grow inside the womb or out. My job as a mom is to fix things for my children. I can't fix this. I'm at a loss. It's to painful right now, even to write about it. I'm not going to write about it.

The short version of the story is this: I came to Minnesota almost three weeks ago; you'll recall that James and I bought a house here and plan to move in May. My mom recently moved here and I came to stay with her after some shit hit the family fan, but then I had to extend the trip. So my doctor in Montana told me to establish care with a doctor here on account of being, you know, high freaking risk and everything. So I did. And my blood pressure is off the charts. So it really isn't safe to fly. It looks like I could be staying until James comes this spring, and he'll have to make a few trips out here in the meantime to see Josh and me. I'm monitoring my blood pressure daily to see where it goes, but so far things don't look all that promising.

That, however, is not my chief complaint today. Today? I must needs get off my chest how much I cannot stand the doctor I saw here in Duluth. Maybe I'm picky, just the least little touch hard to please, and perhaps I was spoiled by the best. doctor. ever. in Bozeman. But this whole office? Is invited to kiss my rounded derriere.

My visit went something like this:

8:30am - Show up fifteen minutes early to fill out new patient paperwork. Sit in waiting room.
8:45am - Try to find magazine to read so people won't talk to me. Continue to sit in waiting room.
9:05am - Move to different chair because idiot on left is a Chatty Kathy, and is discussing her hemmorhoids. Wonder why still sitting in waiting room.
9:20am - Mentally calculate the cost of parking and wonder at the new experience of actually having to pay for a place to leave my vehicle. Notify receptionist of continued presence in waiting room.
9:35am - Finally get called back. Attempt to reassure myself that the little 80 pound twit in scrubs can't possibly be my nurse; must be "take your daughter to work" day.
9:36am - Sit in puny chair while Twit asks exact same health history questions just answered on my new patient intake form. Resist snapping at her to give the whole "reading the chart" thing-y a go.
9:40am - Time to get on the scale, when Twit fires at me with this little gem, "Um, I'm going to need to ask you to get on the scale backwards so you can't see the number."
To which I respond with raised eyebrows, "Pardon? Must have heard that wrong."
"Oh no," Twit says, "you heard me correctly. It's our policy that overweight patients stand backwards on the scale so the number doesn't put them at higher risk for depression. You can't believe how your hormones fluctuate during pregnacy, so it's just safer this way. And it's our policy. Perhaps no one informed you of our policy?"

[Crickets]

The silent fury radiating from my person is, at this point, palpable. It wasn't long before my tongue untied and I was able to shoot back with, "You won't be able to believe how my hormones can make my FAT FOOT fluctuate it's chunky way into your SPINDLY ASS. I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Princess Pea. I own a both a mirror and a scale. I know what I look like and I know what I weigh. I also know I'm seven months pregnant. If anything? I have a much higher opinion of myself than reality warrants. So you may take your policy? Spread some butter on it and feed it to me. Because this fat girl is hungry, and supremely uninterested in your "depression risk" prevention. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Missy."

9:52am - Step off the scale - facing forward - and proceed to exam room. Anticipating another long wait, pass time by devising creative ways Twit could, say, get hit by a bus or choke on her half an apple and string cheese she eats every other day.

10:09am - New nurse comes in and says she's taking over. Hate this one only slightly less.
10:11am - Learn blood pressure is 166/110; the highest so far this pregnancy. Speculate that it is due perhaps, at least in part, to the antics of Twit.
10:13am - Go through entire health history for the third time, unable (unwilling?) to mask impatience.
10:25am - Eureka! Conclude that I must be on Candid Camera or one of those type of deals, because New Nurse that I Hate Slightly Less (don't have a nick name for her; she wasn't worth the effort) just informed me that in future visits (ha! Future visits! What a riot!) it is the office policy that I request a sample cup from the receptionist, which I am then required to, ah, fill at which point I am then expected to carry back out in the waiting room and hold in my lap until I am called back by the nurse.

Heh. If I can't even say the word? There's no way I'm holding it in my lap. In freaking ass public, no less. This woman? Out of her mind.

10:27am - End visit prematurely and resolve to find new doctor whose staff hasn't a.) recently moved from Bitch Street in Twitville or b.) recently escaped from the state hospital for the criminally insane.

I have some news that some of you might find quite startling. Sometimes? People get divorced. Sometimes? Mommy and Daddy don't love each other anymore. Sometimes? It's because Mommy couldn't take Daddy's emotional, mental, spiritual, (physical? perhaps...) abuse anymore. Mommy probably also got tired of the "allowance" she recieved, the tabs that were kept on her constantly, and the, you know, philandering.

Apparently, this is news to a certain "Daddy's" Mommy. Let's call her "grandma" because for all intents and purposes, that's what she is. "Grandma" is having trouble remembering that in recent years Mommy stopped hiding and covering for Daddy's atrocious behavior. She had enough, and she picked up and left. She let Daddy's true colors show for themselves. "Grandma", apparently, just can't wrap her puny little brain around the fact that her baby isn't perfect, and while she kept her fat mouth shut for almost two years, now her mission is Seek and Destroy.

Ever watch Dr. Phil? He'll tell you that no matter who you are or what happened in the marriage, don't involve the children. I don't count because I was old enough to watch this shit happen. I, along with my mother, was also a target. My brother? Was not. I was involved because Daddy Dearest involved me. He didn't give me a choice. My brother and sister missed out on his particular brand of horror, for the most part, because for the years they were growing up he still possessed about 1/32 of a heart, a smaller fraction of which was capable of feeling something for a person other than himself. That 1/32 of a heart has now disappeared, but at least my younger siblings didn't have to deal with that as children.

But now? Because "Grandma" can't prevent her venom from escaping her sniveling lips anymore? Well, the trauma I thought we were beyond after my father was finally out of our lives is rearing it's ugly head again.

I think people are perfectly capable of recovering from the trauma of abuse. People have bounced back from far worse than what I was subjected to, or even what he did to my mom. The wound heals, but there's always a scar. We (lucky!) have a sharp tounged monster to come along now and worry at that scar until she opens the wound agian, because she apparently enjoys watching others suffer.

So, here then, is what I have to say. An open letter to "Grandma" Janet -

So, how about picking on somebody your own size? You didn't call me last night and spew forth that disgusting hatred or any of those absolutely venemous lies! Instead, like a lion hunting gazelle, you picked the weakest in the herd, the one who is the most vulnerable, the child who was hurt the most by his father's striking ability to destroy (or at least attempt to destroy) a person's well being, sense of self worth, and dignity. You preyed upon a boy who has been so hurt by the man who was never a real father to him, and you poured salt in that wound. I find you dispicable. You have children; what kind of mother could bring herself to do that to any child? Are you as heartless as your ruthless son? Must be. Here's the bottom line. I know you people have had a field day running off your grimacing little mouths about my mother. I know your little baby boy, my "father" has been the "victim" to you in all this. That's how he presents himself. He's so manipulative, he's probably gotten you to believe most of his shit. But deep down, you know the truth. You know what kind of wife she was, you know what kind of daughter in law she was, and you know what kind of a mother she was. So don't you dare malign her character to her son anymore. You want to sink your venemous fangs into the flesh of one of her children? Be my guest; you can strike at me any time. But you won't, because I'm much more intimidating than a 19 year old child. Do me a favor, "Grandma", and stay away from my family.