Surprise

I hadn't realized that the genetic counselor's office was smack-dab in the middle of one of the largest OB-GYN practices in the area. I think I was fixated on the date and time on the letter and not at all on anything else.

So when my husband pressed the elevator button for the second floor, I snapped at him. "I'm not pregnant. I'm not going to OB-GYN." To say I was mean would be an understatement. My response was visceral.

Of course, he was right. The second floor was where we needed to be.

So we walked into the office and stood in line. Waited for a receptionist to help us with the paperwork. Signed away. Then waited in the waiting room. It was loud, with one flat screen TV showing a cooking program. And the other was showing public service announcements on health issues. You know, like the importance of taking folic acid to prevent neural tube defects? Yup.

So now I'm really filled with angst. In an office filled with pregnant women and babies, waiting for a stranger to give me statistical odds of whether we should dare risk another pregnancy, and the TV is freaking me out with it's mind-reading abilities.

Clearly, I've become very accustomed to seeing my midwife - and the stark contrast of her office compared to this bustling place.

Michelle rents space, inside of an old Victorian-style house, from a chiropractor. No need to remember to get your parking ticket validated. You just roll up in front of the building. There's no waiting room. Just a chair or two outside her door. Which I usually bypass, because her door is open and you can see her balancing on a ball that is pretending to be a chair. I get a smile, a hug and get offered a cup of tea. No name tags, no badges. No secretary, no nurse. No surprises about who I will need to meet and explain myself to.

But i was surprised by the form I had to fill out at the OB-GYN's office. It was a short notification that they could not accommodate your gender preferences for medical providers. And if you didn't like it, you were free to find a new place to get care.

I signed it, of course, because I wasn't there for them to look under the hood. But I wondered: did the patients know it didn't need to be like this? Did they know that they didn't have to be a number? Did they know that small, intimate practices exist, that their insurance would cover it in full? And that bigger doesn't mean better?

Our meeting with the genetic counselor was fine. And everyone I interacted with at the practice was polite, courteous, and professional.

But I couldn't help but let my mind drift - if I was a patient there, would they remember my name? Would they have cried with me, remembering Sarah's birth? Would I have wanted them there, at Sarah's funeral? Do they understand that it's not just the medicine to fix that matters, but the compassion to still be there when things fall apart?

I'm so glad that we did see the genetic counselor and that perhaps we will know more in a few weeks. But I'm more pleased that the results will be sent to my midwife, my Michelle. And that we'll be able to review them, together.