I never go to the doctor. Ever. I hate it. I even wait till 12+ weeks when I am pregnant. It’s just not my thing. At all. So this last week when I woke up with chest pain and short breath, you knew I didn’t feel well when I couldn’t get to the doctor’s office fast enough. I thought to myself, “great, I have pneumonia and if I don’t get it treated, they’ll put me in the hospital and my house will fall apart”. And drove me and the babies to the closest urgent care. Yoga pants, bed head and all.
I thought they’d listen to my lungs, give me a prescription and send me on my way.
Boy was I wrong.
When you go into any kind of medical building and you poorly word how you’re feeling with things like “chest pain” and soreness in you arms followed by trouble breathing, they rush you in for an EKG followed quickly by a chest xray.
I can knock that one off my bucket list.
Now imagine me though, sort of shocked, not feeling well, with my three and one year old, getting an ekg. Also mix in the fact I am still nursing and that you can’t have a underwire bra on with an EKG and you end up with breastmilk, screaming toddlers and pleading to all things holy, just to go home.
I was not having a heart attack. I don’t even have a little bit of fluid in my lungs. It’s just Costochondritis and it’s pretty much nothing. I’m a hypochondriac. You could tell by how the nurses looked at me. Ugh the worst.
My chest still hurts. The doctor said it had lots to do with toting around my monster one year old. I don’t think it helps I still hold Dexter as much as he’ll let me. And age. I guess sometimes you don’t realize how much your body has aged.
All and all it wasn’t that fun and I don’t think I will be so eager to go in again.
Health care is so scary. You worry if you don’t go in, something could be terribly wrong but if you do go in and it’s nothing, I always worry they think I am insane. The anxiety talking I realize. But I still wonder. I often wonder why some of *us* get so wrapped up in what people think about us. And why, when most people stop caring, I still do. Better to get looked at, better safe the sorry, they say but I can’t get past the “what if they think I am crazy”. I almost had Davis in the car because I so doubted myself.
I’ve decided to start the doula program this summer. I can’t however decided whether I should do a certified program or a postpartum program. I worry that if I work with woman before and during labor and delivery, I won’t have the know how to teach them to trust their own bodies. I couldn’t ever trust mine. I think my poor husband was ready to deliver our babies in the bathroom because I was so hesitant to call and “bother” anyone. I don’t ever want my mothers to feel like that. But if I couldn’t learn to trust myself, how do I teach them? And I really want to work in the birth arts. I really want to help women and families have the births they want. Especially having seen bother my sister and sister in laws wonky hospital deliveries. But will I be good enough?
I have also waffled with the idea of working as a postpartum doula but focusing special attention on mama’s who’ve lost their little ones. I think there is perhaps a special needs for care in that field. To have a “friend” who knows what to say and how to help. To be there as a physical and emotional support. I’ve only done a little research on it but found little. And as strange as people may find it, I have always had a calling to work with those with loss. It takes all kinds, all hearts and mine is with those mamas.
Making these big leaps is hard for me. I fear failing because I feel like I’ve failed at everything. And I just want to do good… I just don’t know where to start.