Intervention
I had my second doctor’s appointment this morning. I heard the baby’s heartbeat for the first time (at the last appointment, I saw it fluttering on a screen) and was feeling quite happy when I went to the desk to make my next couple of appointments. But then my midwife appeared at my shoulder with a quiet, confidential aside for the nurse’s assistant. “Dori would like to speak to Margo when you’re done,” she said.
Indeed, down the hall came Dori, who shook my hand and began leading me back to her office. “Would you mind if I got my husband?” I asked. Andrew was in the waiting room, scared out of the exam room by the possibility of some graphic internal exploration, and I didn’t want him to miss any pregnancy-related discussion. “Well…” she hemmed and hawed and made it quite clear that his was to be just between us.
In her office, she sat me down. “I wanted to talk to you because I noticed that on your initial paperwork you mentioned drinking alcohol every day before your pregnancy,” she said earnestly. “Alcohol can be a great stress reliever, and I just wanted to make sure you had other resources for support. Alcohol can be very bad for your baby.”
The paperwork she referred to was from my first appointment, when I dutifully noted that I usually had a glass of wine each day with dinner.
Mortified, I extolled my main resource, the fabulousness of Andrew as a husband. This didn’t seem to cut it, especially when I told her that our entire families are back East. I almost said “Yep, it’s just us out here,” but thought better of it. I also fought the urge to explain “my drinking”—I’m certain this would only have made things worse. Instead, I tried to emphasize that I’m stridently conservative when it comes to my pregnancy and would never think of drinking alcohol, etc. “I just want you to know that resources are available,” she kept saying. “Especially for newer couples—we have a class discussing how a baby can change your relationship.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll definitely talk to my husband about these resources.”
I felt bad about laughing about this encounter with Andrew (he’s been enjoying sharing with his office the fact that he apparently has a wife with a drinking problem), since I know many women are not as lucky as I am to be so financially and emotionally stable when they get pregnant, or to have such a supportive husband, out in the waiting room patiently reading the New York Times while his wife is gently asked about “her drinking.” It’s good to know about resources should I find I have problems with anxiety, depression, etc. later on; and everyone I’ve encountered so far at the practice has been perfectly nice.
But it did strike us as quite funny that I of all people would have been flagged as a potential needer of intervention—whether for drinking or for not realizing a baby could change things or for having a “newish” marriage that might not be ready for the changes coming its way. Of course we don’t know all the changes that are in store. But I could not be less worried about our ability to handle it all together, without either one of us rushing desperately out for a cocktail.
Indeed, down the hall came Dori, who shook my hand and began leading me back to her office. “Would you mind if I got my husband?” I asked. Andrew was in the waiting room, scared out of the exam room by the possibility of some graphic internal exploration, and I didn’t want him to miss any pregnancy-related discussion. “Well…” she hemmed and hawed and made it quite clear that his was to be just between us.
In her office, she sat me down. “I wanted to talk to you because I noticed that on your initial paperwork you mentioned drinking alcohol every day before your pregnancy,” she said earnestly. “Alcohol can be a great stress reliever, and I just wanted to make sure you had other resources for support. Alcohol can be very bad for your baby.”
The paperwork she referred to was from my first appointment, when I dutifully noted that I usually had a glass of wine each day with dinner.
Mortified, I extolled my main resource, the fabulousness of Andrew as a husband. This didn’t seem to cut it, especially when I told her that our entire families are back East. I almost said “Yep, it’s just us out here,” but thought better of it. I also fought the urge to explain “my drinking”—I’m certain this would only have made things worse. Instead, I tried to emphasize that I’m stridently conservative when it comes to my pregnancy and would never think of drinking alcohol, etc. “I just want you to know that resources are available,” she kept saying. “Especially for newer couples—we have a class discussing how a baby can change your relationship.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll definitely talk to my husband about these resources.”
I felt bad about laughing about this encounter with Andrew (he’s been enjoying sharing with his office the fact that he apparently has a wife with a drinking problem), since I know many women are not as lucky as I am to be so financially and emotionally stable when they get pregnant, or to have such a supportive husband, out in the waiting room patiently reading the New York Times while his wife is gently asked about “her drinking.” It’s good to know about resources should I find I have problems with anxiety, depression, etc. later on; and everyone I’ve encountered so far at the practice has been perfectly nice.
But it did strike us as quite funny that I of all people would have been flagged as a potential needer of intervention—whether for drinking or for not realizing a baby could change things or for having a “newish” marriage that might not be ready for the changes coming its way. Of course we don’t know all the changes that are in store. But I could not be less worried about our ability to handle it all together, without either one of us rushing desperately out for a cocktail.
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