The time has finally come. After almost five months of my OB/Gyn team (Doctors Acula and Eyeshadow) not totally knowing who I am or listening to the words that come out of my mouth, I’ve decided to end it.
About two weeks ago (when I was at 18 weeks), I started having what are scientifically known as “contractiony thingies.” It kind of felt like maybe going into labor, except that the contractiony thingies weren’t getting stronger and closer together; they just started happening every 5 to 60 minutes, at the standard intensity of one jab-to-the-lower-abdomen-by-someone-holding-an-oyster-fork, and stayed at that rate. After using the Internet to rule out Braxton Hicks, heart attacks, and creeping Sharia, I diagnosed myself as having bladder spasms. I have a fun medical condition called interstitial cystitis (scientifically known as “chronic bladder stuff”), which I haven’t been able to treat since becoming knocked up, on account of the baby-killing that all medications except gummy pre-natal vitamins and chicken soup do. I put in a call to my uro-gynecologist (a.k.a. “doctor of bladder pain”) to spread the good word about my contractiony thingies and see what could be done. For better or worse, the first step, officially, was to run to Dr. Eyeshadow’s office as fast as I could to make sure I wasn’t going into super-early labor. I was very grateful that she was able to stay a couple minutes after 5:00 to squeeze me in right after I called. We determined that the baby was totally fine and that I was no way going into labor. This means it was probably totally bladder stuff. I told her that I was then going to go see my uro-gynocologist for treatment, and the short version of her response to that was, “Okay, but don’t let him treat you with anything other than hot chicken soup or you’ll both have baby murder on your hands.”
One of the medications used to treat interstitial cystitis is Pyridium (the same stuff that you take when you get a UTI; you know the one. It turns your pee orange). It’s a Category B drug, which means “really really probably okay to take while your pregnant without murdering your baby. Seriously, it’s fine probably.” Category A is the gold standard of “totally fine. I checked with data and shit,” but only gummy pre-natal vitamins and hot chicken soup are in that class (and also apparently something for thyroid replacement). Category C is “I don’t know; stop asking me stupid questions,” Category D is “You’ll probably give birth to a Truckasaurus instead of a baby, but if you’re feeling zealous, be my guest,” and Category X is “Double-murder your baby.” I’ve talked to Dr. Eyeshadow about the possibility of being allowed to take Category B (“probable non-murder”) Pyridium a number of times (that number being three; each time it was news to her because she doesn’t remember who I am or listen to the words that come out of my mouth). Each time was met with a variation of, “Ooooh, better not, on account of the potential baby murder. Have some soup instead”
So, because we neither of us want to murder my baby, I continued to have painful contractiony thingies for six awesome days and sleepless nights before I kind of crashed my car. It turns out that when it feels like you’re getting jabbed in the abdomen with an oyster fork every 5 to 60 minutes, you can’t get more than 4 to 59 consecutive minutes of sleep. And when you do this for nearly a week straight, your ability to correctly interpret road signs is diminished. And when your ability to correctly interpret road sides is diminished, you get into low-speed collisions that are all your fault while asking yourself, “Wait, why is this happening?”
I’ve gotten a bit more sleep these last few days and am in better shape now than I was a week ago, but I did get in to see my uro-gynecologist today. He had no qualms about prescribing my probably totally completely safe Category B medication, as it will most certainly be less harmful to my growing fetus than continued car accidents, for example. And I’m going to see a new OB/Gyn on Friday.
I went back into Dr. Eyeshadow’s office today to get copies of my medical records so I could take them to the new doctor. Today, everyone there knew exactly who I was, had full encyclopedic knowledge of my medical history, and wished the best for me and my growing fetus. I explained that it wasn’t them, it was me. It was awkward, but I think it’s for the best.