Lynne doesn’t really know what to do any more; instead she looks confused until she starts to giggle. She had her last day at work last Friday, which is just as well because it seems that all her energy is being directed to her womb and starving her brain of blood, or oxygen, or whatever it is that the brain uses to think about stuff. This new vagueness isn’t annoying; it’s a nice change. It used to be that we only went to the supermarket together so that she could shout at me in front of other people, but now she follows me around as meek as a lamb and I decide what goes in the trolley. I decide! On the down side, I have to carry all the shopping home.
She hasn’t quite adjusted to not having to go to work yet. I let her sleep in and she says she feels guilty for being in bed at noon. She doesn’t get up though, so I suspect its all talk. I say she needs plenty of rest to cook up the baby.
She is going to the doctor’s every two weeks, but now the hospital want to see her every two weeks as well. It alternates, like the Olympics and the Commonwealth Games. This seemed an important new development, so I went along too. We were at the Queen Mum’s at 9am, quite a feat to be out of bed so early when you’ve been unemployed for as long as I have, and we saw a tiny, almost inaudible doctor from Manchester. It’s her first day, we were her first patients, and she didn’t know where anything was. She takes Lynne’s blood pressure. She checks Lynne’s urine sample on the windowsill by the sink. She puts a device on Lynne’s belly that makes the baby’s heartbeat sound like overhearing Aphex Twin played too loud on someone else’s iPod. Everything is normal.
The doctor says something.
What was that?
She wants to know if we have discussed our birth plan with the community midwife. We tell her that we haven’t seen a community midwife yet. She doesn’t seem bothered by this.
This is normal too.
She hasn’t quite adjusted to not having to go to work yet. I let her sleep in and she says she feels guilty for being in bed at noon. She doesn’t get up though, so I suspect its all talk. I say she needs plenty of rest to cook up the baby.
She is going to the doctor’s every two weeks, but now the hospital want to see her every two weeks as well. It alternates, like the Olympics and the Commonwealth Games. This seemed an important new development, so I went along too. We were at the Queen Mum’s at 9am, quite a feat to be out of bed so early when you’ve been unemployed for as long as I have, and we saw a tiny, almost inaudible doctor from Manchester. It’s her first day, we were her first patients, and she didn’t know where anything was. She takes Lynne’s blood pressure. She checks Lynne’s urine sample on the windowsill by the sink. She puts a device on Lynne’s belly that makes the baby’s heartbeat sound like overhearing Aphex Twin played too loud on someone else’s iPod. Everything is normal.
The doctor says something.
What was that?
She wants to know if we have discussed our birth plan with the community midwife. We tell her that we haven’t seen a community midwife yet. She doesn’t seem bothered by this.
This is normal too.
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