Day Writing: Prenatal doctor visits
Prenatal appointments. These are a current slice of my life where I pay someone an insane amount of money to take my blood pressure and weigh me at a time when I feel as though I’m outgaining half the calves we’re feeding. The quiet is nice while waiting for the doctor; so nice I nearly dozed off last month.
The frustrating part is that the slew of professionals I see don’t have a clue what my life entails, or half of what they’re preaching. They suggest diets high in protein, but never mention meat as a source. I am always quick to list it among what I consume, and should they try to give their, “meat should be limited,” health spiel, I just give them the eye until they taper off. They then usually check my chart and come back with how healthy I am. Maybe it will all sink in one day.
During my first visit for this pregnancy, the upbeat, well rested, petite doctor was thrilled to tell me about how her in-laws’ ranch. I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping for some common sense regarding my lifestyle. I was wrong.
She went on to inform me that I could not ride a horse or four-wheeler while pregnant, because I could fall off. For a split a second I wondered what kind of horse she thought I rode. That thought was quickly replaced by the thought that if she had seen just how clumsy I became after about the six-month mark with my first pregnancy, she would suggested I have either horse or vehicle waiting at the front door at all times. The odds of my making it to my destination without falling would be greatly decreased.
I did see an opportunity in her, and asked about other physical work and whether any of that needed to be limited. Say, packing buckets of grain or lifting heavy items while my husband hammers/welds/maneuvers the other end. Her reply was an enthusiastic no, that I could continue anything I did before pregnancy for as long as it didn’t bother me. Walking was also suggested as excellent prenatal exercise. My hope for a wink and comment about letting my husband know I needed to limit feeding sows or being raised in the tractor bucket were dashed.
Upon getting home, I drove the four-wheeler out to wherever my husband was, and filled him in on everything. It wasn’t a week later that we were working on an electric fence, and he asked me to walk to the perimeter and check insulators. I commented that I should have brought my four-wheeler. He perkily replied, “walking is excellent exercise for pregnant women and riding four-wheelers is dangerous.”
Thank you for all the help, Doc.