And...Exhale

Everything with F squared is fine and dandy, chocolate candy.

The perinatologist even filled me in on his theories about my doctor's request that I see a specialist. His thought is that my OB likes to do routine ultrasounds in his office so he can bill for more services, which equals more money. This is alright except that he's not a radiologist. So technically he's not qualified to do such a thing. This is a very common practice among OBs, though. In order to cover their own asses, any situation where there is even a shadow of a doubt of everything being par for the course, it is in the OBs best interest to get a second, more official opinion.

All of this I understand. I just wish that my OB had given me a little more information before shipping me off to the perinatologist. It turns out that the thing that they maybe thought they saw was present, and is the most minor marker for down syndrome. However, no other markers are present in F squared. Given my blood test results, age and family history, there is no discernible increase in risk of her actually having down syndrome.

While I was incredibly happy and relieved to hear this news, being there brought on a mixture of frustration and sadness. First off, my doctor's office, who made this appointment for me and couldn't even provide me with an address, never sent any records indicating why I was there in the first place. Luckily, the notes I had scribbled last week were in my checkbook, so I was able to fill in bits and pieces for the new doctor. Otherwise, they wouldn't have even known what they were looking for. Ass hats, all of them.

What bothered me in a more profound way was the other women in the jammed waiting room. The ones who where there because there was a problem. It was written on their faces. Some had husbands or mothers with them, but others sat alone. Not reading, not watching the silent TV, they just stared. It was as if all of their struggles were laid in front of them and they were being forced to look. Their heaviness still lingers on my chest, a weight with each breath.

My own good news seems small and insignificant in relation.