35 and Pregnant

Here's how pregnancy usually works around here:  Mike changes jobs, I change OB's,
 and whammo! I find myself with child.  
Typically, we're going through a few major life changes at the time as well, 
just to make things interesting. 

This pregnancy was no different, except for this time around my OB/GYN is Bette Midler.  

And I turned 35 in the middle of it. 

Now, I know there are people who, like, plan their families and stick to a timeline.  

There are also people who still think 30 is old. 

I don't fall into either of those categories, but my (former) OB does, at least about the latter.  

No sooner do I get decked out in the paper towel at the confirmation appointment, than she starts dropping "Advanced Maternal Age" bombs like the Enola Gay. 

Whatever.  I have bigger fish to fry, like a full-time job and graduate night classes to finish.  But, the fun doesn't end with her looking at me like I'm a naughty child.  

"Well, your eggs are old," I'm told, "We need to schedule an appointment with the Crypt Keeper  expired eggs specialist."

 I'm cool with it because it means I get an extra ultrasound, so we put it on the schedule,

 and I walk out through the casting call for Teen Mom/waiting room. 

(Hmmm... I'm the high-risk one?) 

Fast-forward 2 weeks, and I'm back in a doctor's office, but this time we're going to talk about how my eggs are expired and my ovaries are wilted.  

Or something.  

First up is the ultrasound, and I see my little seahorse just a-bouncin' around in there, blissfully unaware of us.  By the way, why are ultrasound techs so darn cool?  We had a grand time discussing third children, surprises, and career changes 

until it was time to wipe the goo off and meet with the MD.

I'm led into an artificially "comfy" room to have a seat on the couch across from the cross-legged, grey-faced doc.  This guy is about as warm and fuzzy as Hannibal Lecter, with all the charm and sparkling wit of the Grinch.  The whole setup smacks of a psych evaluation 

(So, tell me about your secret stash of empty toilet paper rolls and glass jars, Mrs. Brown.), and my hackles are up.  

Crypt Keeper launches into a description of the various tests they can run on me and the baby, blah, blah, blah.  I take notes so I can report back to Mike, 

but all I'm thinking is, "None of this is going to change anything."

At the end of this little tete-a-tete, as I gather my things and say goodbye, Dr. Keeper gives me a probing look and says, "That's the first time I've seen you smile.  How are you feeling about this pregnancy?  I wonder if you might be a little depressed.  I could refer you to somebody..."

Oh, no he didn't.  I round on him and curse the fact that I don't wear earrings,

 'cause I'd be taking them off for a fight right about now.

The man met me 15 minutes ago and he has that kind of GALL?!

"No, I'm not depressed.  I guess your sunny bedside manner and the super-cheery, *light* topics we were discussing didn't really bring out my bubbly side.  

You want to know what I'm really like?  

Talk to your ultrasound technician.  We are done here."

I wish I had said exactly that.  
Mostly I tried not to stutter or tear up in rage 
(because I'm an angry crier) 
and just got out of there as fast as my Hoveround could go.

Thanks, doc, but I'll pass on your tests and consultations.  
You can keep your advice and your sour looks, and STOP CALLING ME OLD.

So, how am I going to wake my elderly self up in the night with a newborn? 

I guess I'll just have to sleep in my hearing aids and 

make sure my walker has brand new tennis balls.