There is something to be said for a man with small hands. Or a skilled pickpocket who reforms in favor of helping people. Or a competent midget with a medical license.
With just over four weeks left in my pregnancy, I had my first "special" exam yesterday. My doctor reached in and said, "The baby is head down," but he might as well have said, "Your tonsils feel fine" for as far in as he ventured.
I had forgotten how painful the special exams can be until I found myself scratching at the ceiling with my teeth. My husband was in the room and said I jumped looking for something --anything-- to grab onto and brace my pained self. I pulled some chest muscles so bad that I was referred to the ER immediately after my appointment to make sure my chest pains were benign. (Totally not making that up.) (Totally went to the ER and got CAT-scanned.)
Wouldn't it be nice to get medical treatment in Star Trek Land where the doctor could just wave a medical scanner over me to know exactly what was going on in my body, and I could order the replicator to make me a bowl of ice cream with bananas, strawberries and an unhealthy portion of Magic Shell? Instead, I'm on The Nature Channel, and my doctor is rooting around like a black bear with his paw in the trunk of a tree searching for insects.
The news: I am dilated to 1 centimeter, which means David and I for real have to pick out a baby name. At 5cm, we will consult the Magic 8 Ball. At 9cm, the nurse gets to pick the name. (Hopefully, she has good taste in names.)
Until that day comes, I must continue to see Dr. BananaHands for my special exams.
Ah, heck. Who doesn't like getting their tonsils massaged every once in while?