So, last night was a bit of a mess.
My husband discovered, at 5:15 Monday night, that my 5:30 Wednesday doctor’s appointment was actually for 5:00 Monday. So, just as I was laying down for a nap, I hauled ass to get dressed. A kind friend quickly ran us over to the appointment.
Which was a bit of a waste of time. When I saw the local sugar-urine-OB specialist in town, my kupat cholim (health care provider) switched my primary care OB to him. So for the next quarter, he’s the only doc I can see. Which is totally fine. Just information I would have loved to have known before I dressed so fast I forget to put on underwear.
So we hussled our tussle for nothing, but we did manage to schedule an appointment with the correct doc – for Tuesday at 10:30 a.m. From whence I have just returned.
The appointment went well. My blood pressure is apparently low (I should have pressed for numbers but was kind of sleepy since I was up at 4:30 puking) and I need to focus on drinking fluids (2.5 liters a day – up from my current 750 mls on a good day) instead of eating. The new meds have had no effect, but I am to stay on them for a week. If, at next week’s appointment, nothing improves, he will “change my treatment.” Muh wha ha ha.
Okay, he didn’t say it like that. He’s a nice guy. He needs to speak more loudly. Which is awkward when speaking to an Israeli, because, you see, when you ask them to repeat themselves, they use easier words (in English, for those of you keeping score at home) for you to understand. Thanks, buddy. I just couldn’t hear you.
And my sugar is just fine, so I can stop testing my pee. Yay!
On a fabulous note, we got another ultrasound and the Bean was dancing and thrashing and scratching his/her nose. Two legs, two arms, a big head. It’s funny cause when they’re doing the ultrasound, all I can think is, okay, are we done yet? Cause if you keep that up I might pee, vomit or fart at you. And then when they stop, I’m like a little kid. “Again! Again!”
He/she does not like it when the doc pokes me in the tummy (smart kid – I kind of hate it too). My biggest concern with fetal development at this point is: My baby has no rhythm. My baby dances like Elaine from “Seinfeld.” Indeed, it is a “dry heave set to music.” Complete with the little kicks.
And I feel guilty for it, but my first impression was that my baby looks not unlike the little pygmy mummies that the good guys fight off in “The Mummy Returns.” This is just wrong on so many levels. *
On that note, I’m going back to bed. Going to try and get some work done from home later.
* The hubby concurs on the pygmy mummy point.