So...
I've begun the process of unpacking all the "baggage" from my third pregnancy. Compared to the first two rounds, it was much harder on me emotionally. Physically, I had my discomforts for sure--a hyperemesis gravidarium stint worse than any I've had before, a traumatic season of life events, and anxiety that sorta complicated everything else. I could manage those fine.
It was the feeling, and actuality, that the person I trusted to care for me and the little bean, did not at all.
While I pride myself on being the easy, pleasant patient, I also make a point to be well-read and informed about my health. I read medical journals. I follow research. I try to stay in tune with myself. Probably most importantly, I stay the heck away from Google when something is amiss! I also have an advantageous professional background, having worked in the field for a few years, not so many years ago. This coupled with my hubby's experience means I have a great grasp of what doctors do, as well as what they should not do. And I know how to advocate, to use my voice to make sure I'm getting the care I need.
As such, I have often been called the dream patient. I've never had an issue with doctors before, because even as I advocate for me, I respect their position. (I've never been a doctor, for clarification--while nursing is its own difficult, the two jobs do not exactly compare.)
Before I get too far into it, let's be clear: My former OB was never mean to me. In fact, he and his staff were amazing. They would always be warm and welcoming, even playing with my toddler and entertaining him during my appointments. The practice felt more like a visit with friends than a medical building.
But maybe that's where the problem began.
Because they were so kind and warm, I was reluctant to entertain the idea that my OB was not really listening. Not just failing to listen, but failing to care for or about the woman carrying the baby he'd been tapped to monitor and deliver.
My anxiety was written off as simple hormones and stress. Not unbelievabale--I was setting up base in a different town, away from everyone I knew, to open a new busimess. In addition to number 3 (now known as Tiger Lily), I had two other kiddos to care for; my husband works crazy long hours so it's often just me with a side of cute small fries. When I asked the good doctor to refer me to a counselor or a doula, I was told I didn't need those Hollywood things and to just relax, that my pregnancy needn't be a production with an extensive cast.
When I developed symphysis pubis dysfunction--a condition where the hormone relaxin softens the pelvic ligaments and joints to prepare for delivery. My body did not adjust well to this new stretchiness and responded with hip, lower back, and pelvic girdle pain that left me walking side to side when I was able to at all. Good doctor didn't see an issue with this. Again, written off as a normal discomfort. Didn't hesititate to try to ply me with pills to shut me up though. I'd never heard of SPD and was only properly diagnosed once I transferred to a doctor 3 hours away.
My hyperemesis was not taken seriously until I lost 15 pounds. I was a sad, sad sight--dark circles, skin and bones. I was done. This was the final straw for me, and I transferred back to my doctors in Atlanta. It's one thing to ignore my discomfort, but if I couldn't eat or get nourishment, there was no way my little bean could thrive. Babies draw their nourishment from us, and my reserves were tapped out. (Admittedly I still have nightmares of my little bean in there, starving, meanwhile instead of the IV nourishment my doctor shoves pills down my throat so "it won't hurt.")
Anxiety, sure--I've lived with it for a couple years now and can manage. I have resources and know when to draw on them. The SPD? NOT a common occurrence for me but I'm fine with a wild card as long as I can get what I need to deal with it. (In this case, some actual treatment--turns out I had a severe case of SPD as well as degenerative joint disease in my hip, and would need surgery to even address the latter.)
The hyperemesis, I could not play around with, as it has always led to hospitalizations and bed rest for me. IV nutrition and anti-nausea meds delivered through a port, via a pump, which I've always gotten no later than the 14th week. I desperately wanted to avoid a hospital stay, but even with a late yet intensive course of actual treatment, I was still too far behind my usual curve to not end up admitted for inpatient care.
The good doctor took it personally upon finding out I would be delivering elsewhere. Had I stayed in Albany, there would be a chance that he'd end up delivering my baby anyway, as only one hospital has labor and delivery. That meant either he or his colleagues would still be responsible for me and my bean at some point, and that was a risk I simply refused to take. Thanks to his lack of concern and ability to make me feel as if I were overreacting, whiny, or both, I needed to get out.
Anxiety does not directly affect the baby unless it is unhecked. SPD has no bearing on a pregnancy besides potentially debilitating the mom. But hyperemesis...that can be deadly for both baby and mom.
So, after a particularly harrowing visit where my blood was lost and my blood sugar readings were erased from my pump, I threw in the towel.
Why wait?
I waited because I needed to be sure my anxiety wasn't driving me toward hypersensitivity over the new doctor. I didn't want to make unnecessary waves. I didn't want to be a fuss bucket. I didn't want to go through a pregnancy and delivery three hours away from my family.
Why leave that practice, then? Couldn't I just grin and bear it?
I transferred because I didn't want to suffer any more missed diagnoses or patronization. I didn't want to suffer period. I didn't want me or my little bean to die.
My husband was more than happy to come back to Atlanta with me. The kids just wanted their real mom back, and a healthy baby sister.
That doctor in Albany treated me as a portal, a means to a delivery. I was not a person, just a vessel for a baby. I'm pretty sure our outcome would be more than grim had I not stood up and spoke out.
I'm NOT just a portal. My baby was not just a number.
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