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June 23, 2004

?I have to space some of my business to the 3rd Quarter.?

After almost 36 hours of “I feel weird” we made it to the doctor appointment. Fabulous Babe was miserable walking through the door after spending 90 minutes in traffic. (Who wouldn’t be?) I try to be supportive but there’s little I can do.

Each of these appointments follows the same program: urine and sometimes blood tests, weigh in, and blood pressure. FB grits her teeth at the weigh in and generally does fine with the rest. It’s become a routine.

After the nurses leave we’re always left in the same manner: I’m seated in a chair and FB is sitting on the exam table wrapped in a sheet. (It’s anything but a toga party.) With all of the “activity” of the last day or two we’re both hoping to have some progress.

In walks Doctor Molotov.

Doctor Molotov was a live wire today. The last few weeks she’s been run down with a cold but today she’s cooking with gas. She’s all smiles and cheer and she’s moving and flitting around like a hummingbird looking for its next meal. She's perky in a "cheerleader on weight loss medicine" sort of way.

She cues right in on our mood and is pleased to hear about the “weird” feelings that FB has been having. She bounces through the room scooping up all the equipment and in no time has FB flat on her back, stomach smeared with gel and we’re listening to Junior’s heartbeat. All's well.

I point out that I’ve noticed a number of hits on the website from one of the medical establishments from the Twin Cities. She chirps, “Oh that might be Dave,” otherwise known as the other Doctor Molotov. Where she’s devoted to tormenting my wife and others in general practice he’s internal medicine / pediatrics. If I try to picture the Family Molotov it just devolves into a vision of a flurry of hummingbirds. (They have three daughters, the first two were twins and then one that followed a little quicker than they expected.)

Doctor Molotov is non-stop with the zingers. “You lost the race. My other redheaded patient your age delivered Sunday!” We groan. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you go longer than the 9th.” More groans. “I had another delivery on Tuesday.” Swell. “The Sunday went fine. She had the epidural and was smiling through the whole C-section.” Great. “Just time this correctly. I just want to have to walk in the door, catch the baby and then I can head back out.” We’ll see what we can do.

I mentioned that FB’s recovery room items will include a Thermos of Merlot. Doctor Molotov didn’t miss a beat: “I prefer Chardonnay but Miller Lite is just fine!” After she said that I began thinking a case of Miller Lite may have figured into that 3rd kid.

We get to the more tedious part of the exam that will yield all of the progress so far.

*detail censored*

Nothing! Zip! Some “softening” but no dialation and certainly no other progress of any kind. 36 hours of “weird” feelings have produced no measurable progress.

At this point we’re now visibly frustrated and annoyed. Chuckling Doctor Molotov remarks, “What? You thought June? I have to think about my financial health. I have to space some of my business to 3rd quarter. It can’t all fall in June.”

That’s our doctor: The moves and style of an Indianapolis 500 pit crew, the tableside nature of Steve Martin and the shrewd fiscal sense of either the Gettys or the Duponts.

“Go home. Go walk. I’ll see you next week. The baby will come when it wants to come. you can't rush it.”

It would be a lot easier to be annoyed with her if she wasn’t so damn perky.

On the way out one of the nurses suggests that to bring on labor we "fool around". "That works every time!"

FB shot her a look that caused her to flinch.

A dejected and exhausted FB headed for home. (I was dispatched to Wendy’s for a baked potato.) It was the final cap off on a long day.

Posted by Jim at June 23, 2004 10:12 PM