16-week antenatal appointment

I didn't have any decent medical updates last week. Well, I burnt my hand on a pitta bread. So I went to sleep with my palm on a cold pack. It gave me a bit of a fright when I woke in the night and brushed against it.

And true, my friend Charlotte cut her finger on a yoghurt lid and it got so infected she was almost admitted to hospital. She said it looked so bad she was ashamed to type at work, and was considering a metal finger thing a la ‘The Piano’. But it might've been a bit noisy.

Jon’s right ear was a slightly blocked, but he only remembered to ask me to put drops in it once we’d said good night and turned the lights off.

See?

So I waited til today, my 16-week antenatal appointment, and it turned out my blood pressure is a fraction on the low side. Which is quite ironic given the blood-boiling three hours I spent at the antenatal clinic.

I was seen, eventually, by a midwife called Marcella. I fear I am predisposed not to like people called Marcella, as the only other one I’ve ever known turned out to be a wolf in friend’s clothing.

At my hen weekend, organised to the n^th degree of loveliness by my godsister Jules, she was rude to all my friends, refused to eat anything cooked by Jules, got shitfaced, went to the pub on her own in Chipping Norton while the rest of us were at the beauty place and had to be coerced into paying her share for dinner at the Kingham Plough. Apparently she insisted on inspecting it squiffily, then still wouldn’t hand over her credit card, stating in a very loud, American (which is pretty heretical in itself in the Cotswolds) voice “You girls need to learn to read a bill!” To which my now sister-in-law Emma, who is the sweetest-natured person under normal circumstances, somehow found herself replying “Well you need to learn to...be more polite!”

I wimped out of confronting her about it in the remaining weeks before the wedding. Which obviously wasn’t much to her liking either. Despite being spotted early on at her designated table (she had fiercely insisted on being seated next to her boyfriend) they must have suddenly decided to leave, but without saying anything. So the waiters patiently served their food, and took it away again, untouched. My mother took over a special gluten-free cake she had thoughtfully made her for pudding, and left it by her chair, just in case.

Marcella never referred to it, and I managed to be smiley but too busy at every subsequent encounter, which was a little tricky seeing as we worked together. We didn’t have many meetings together, but she always seemed to be in the loo at the same time as me. Then she left (in mysterious circumstances) so my cowardice breathed out.

Anyway, midwife Marcella was a perfectly nice person, she was just baffled and fairly weary. These appointments are basically an exercise in administration, and if your administrative system is based on photocopies and guesswork, it’s an unuplifting experience all round.

Together we marvelled at the fact that I have yet to be contacted by the 1-to-1 midwife, who is meant to have taken over all my appointments and care. Marcella filled out another referral (by hand, on a photocopied bit of paper) and said she hoped I got a phonecall before my next appointment. But she said it in a resigned, powerless way that one might say in October ‘I hope it won’t rain for the rest of the month’.

I am meant to have this 1-to-1ery because of my psychiatric history, which I suppose makes people explode six feet off their chair. The words electric shock therapy tend to have that effect. Although it would be very nice to have such support, I am doing much better in the mental health stakes (though prob not 100%) and would actually like it because a) the last time I was pregnant and had such a midwife she was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and I wanted her to Be My Friend, which she sort of was for a bit, especially when we had lunch in Carluccio’s and I dripped prawn oil on Logie’s head whilst doing that overambitious breastfeeding whilst eating in a public place thing, that I never normally did, I was just trying to impress her. And b) it would solve all this buggering about trying to sync up appointments.

Because Marcella, bless her, didn’t have much of a clue about what days various clinic were held on, it turned out once I got back to reception. And she didn’t take too kindly to my probing questions like “Why do I have to go to the VBAC (vaginal birth after caesarean – I’m sorry, both the acronym and the full name are squeamish) clinic after I’ve seen the obstetrician if she decides I need another c-section?”. Poor Marcella folded too easily, clearly just wanted me out, admitted that it didn’t really matter which ‘clinic’ I went to, they were all in the same place, with the same midwives.

I’m having a diabetes test at 28 weeks, because Logie was such a big baby, need to see the anaesthetist at 32 weeks, because of my prolapsed disc, and have a showdown with the obstetrician about an elective c-section after the 20-week scan in a month. It’s the last one that I really mind about.

Eventually Marcella, having left the room four times to get different photocopies, lifted her head from my notes and asked “Have we covered everything we need to in this appointment?”. I mentally checked my many years’ medical training as a midwife and gave her the reassuring answer she clearly desired.

It all reminded me of last time, when three separate failures of information-sharing between hospital, GP and midwife after Logie was born turned out to be due to fax problems. FAXES?! Who uses faxes these days? Michael Winner?

When I finally got back to the car, I had a parking ticket. The receptionist had given me a letter, in case this happened, because I was seen almost two hours after my appointment time. He said that it would negate the charge, so I didn’t need to nip back and put another pay-and-display ticket in. In fact it said that I’d had ‘unforseen problems with my pregnancy’ and that they hoped the authorities would ‘take this into consideration’ which makes me feel both guilty and unreassured.

However, one system which is working tickety boo is nursery. Logie started in the infants' room today. It felt like such a big day I even brushed his hair.

When we got there, he beetled off as usual, but was diverted from the stairs to the baby room and steered towards the older children. He went to the side independently, collected his cereal in a bowl from a carer, carefully carried it to a table (on his own – there were two other little boys sitting at two other tables – is that a thing?), pulled out his little chair, sat on it properly and started eating his breakfast nicely. I mean, HELLO?! I was dead proud, and even a bit misty, but not entirely sure this wasn’t a clone they’d created just for my benefit.

I stood for a while by the door, open-mouthed, and he turned around and spotted me. He cheerfully shouted ‘Mumma!’, gave me a boastful wave and turned back to his breakfast.

On collecting him, he rushed up to show me proudly that he was still wearing his George Pig wellies, made a spirited attempt at pilfering a scooter and ate a whole chicken drumstick with a flourish when he got home. He’d had a successful day. Maybe nursery could organise my maternity care. It would be far more efficient – and I’d get snacks.