end to end

I had a post natal follow-up with my midwife, a dentist appointment, and a surprise visit to my clinic last week. I suppose that it's only fair. My boy is being prodded every three hours, round the clock. I can put up with a few inconveniences.

When I arrived at the clinic, the nurse asked me "Where's your baby?" She wasn't being accusatory or anything, just curious I suppose. I should have said "In the car. Don't worry. I cracked a window," but I told the truth. I suspected that she might not appreciate the joke. It occurred to me that perhaps the fact that my baby was in the NICU would have made its way to my primary clinic with my files. I seem to remember someone at the hospital saying something to that effect. I don't think the nurse checked. She asked me if I wanted to be weighed; I did not realize that was a choice. You go to the doctor, you get weighed. I did want to be weighed, in fact. I was curious. Last time, it was 165. This time, 147.

My midwife was aware that I was no longer pregnant, but it could have been the "post natal visit" delineation that tipped her off and not my chart. It was an uneventful visit: cervix looks fine, uterus feels fine, weight is fine, blood pressure is fine, boobs look fine (actually, she said "They look wonderful.") Everything was fine. I got a little lecture about birth control because I definitely don't want to be pregnant again for at least another year. If that.

Next up was the dentist for a regular check up and cleaning. Of course, I have brushed my teeth at total of nine times in the past two months, so I knew this would not be pleasant. And flossing? I did not even floss for the week before the appointment, just to look good. It's been pretty low on my list.

Lesson learned. I get to come back twice, starting in two weeks, for planing and scaling and another time for a small filling. Guess what? I have flossed every day since then and dusted off my electric toothbrush as well as made my tea tree mouthwash, which I swig twice a day. I don't need it to get even worse in the intervening time.

It's my own fault, so I can't complain or feel bad about it.

I can only hope that my insurance covers a lot of it.

Then on Wednesday evening while Pete was holding Finn, I realized that I really had to pee. However, when I went to pee, this tiny squirt came out, not at all in proportion to the urge. "That can't be good," I thought. Sounded like a bladder infection symptom to me. I drank gallons of water and quarts of cranberry juice, and I felt better in the morning. By Friday, however, I knew that I was not going to be able to drink my way out of this problem, unlike so many others, and I dropped into my clinic.

A cup full of pee, one "O Magazine," and a quick exam later, it was pretty clear that I had a Urinary Tract infection. She gave me a prescription for antibiotics: lovely sulfa drugs. It smelled like Old Faithful every time I opened the bottle, which made me feel pleasantly nostalgic. I was compliant with my medication; you don't work with pharmaceutical care practitioners for ten years and screw that up. I'm not sure it is completely cleared up, though. I'll see how the weekend goes...