Part of the deal with this whole Vasa Previa nonsense is that I will deliver early. No going into labor for this woman in her thirties. Since the doctors know this, I was scheduled to receive a Betamethasone shot to help with Yoda's lung development, just in case early is... too early. My first appointment was scheduled for last Friday.
A woman in her thirties is naturally curious, so I looked online to see where this shot was going to be... administered. In my belly? In my eyeball? Who knows? It turned out that my butt was the body part of choice. What I also discovered in my searching was that I would need another shot 24 hours later-- it's a two dosage kind of deal. Math has never been my strong suit, but I know enough to know that 24 hours past Friday is Saturday. And my doctor's office isn't open on Saturday. So I called to sort it out.
'Oh,' the nurse said when she realized the error. 'Well, you could just take it home and have your partner give you the second dose on Saturday.'
I laughed and said, 'You obviously don't know my partner.'
For giggles, I called L and said, 'Hey, how would you feel about giving me a shot in the butt on Saturday?'
L was silent for a second and then said, 'No thanks.'
I sent a text to my friend C, who happens to be a doctor. 'If I came over on Saturday morning, would you be willing to give me a shot in the butt? Yes, I am serious.'
A woman in her thirties knows she has a true friend when the immediate response is, 'Yes, but let me come to you.' It turned out, however, that her services would be unnecessary. My doctor called me to reschedule to this past Monday and Tuesday.
I thought that was the extent of the butt-shot drama, but if there is one thing I should have figured out by the ripe old age of 33 it's that there are no limits to dramatic potential in any situation. My OB's office has an open area for blood work, but I guess I assumed that since this particular visit would involve me pulling my pants down, I might have a little privacy. I was wrong.
'Just enough to... you know... get to the fleshy part,' the nurse said, and I smiled at her. I know all the nurses quite well by now, since I'm what you'd call a regular at the OB. Lord knows I've got plenty of fleshy part, so I dropped trow, and she had at it. Just then, another nurse I've gotten to know walked by and stopped.
'Hey, R!' she said. 'How's everything going?'
I looked down at my exposed butt cheek and back at her. 'Swell,' I said. 'How are you?'
It was about three hours later when I started to feel... yucky. Sicky. I will spare you the gory details, but I think by 3:30am L was starting to think I might have been some sort of prototype for that scene in The Exorcist. I thought it was just something I ate, but when I woke up and looked in the mirror I saw that I had a weird rash on my cheeks (the face ones). Like in that Baby Jane movie.
When I called the doctor, they determined I wasn't having an allergic reaction, but some kind of intolerance. I had two options. I could forgo the next shot and spare myself another night of sickness and Bozo-cheeks, or I could deal with it and get another shot, for the sake of the baby.
Ah, the things the body of a woman in her thirties goes through. This dilemma was obviously a no-brainer, but it got me thinking about how Judy Blume left out this chapter in Are You There God, It's Me Margaret. Maxi pads aren't the half of it, as Margaret surely knows by now.
I walked into the office Tuesday and, without waiting to be prompted, pulled my pants down to expose the other butt cheek. 'Do it, would you?' I said. 'But make it quick.'
And just as I was about to get stuck again, the same nurse from the day before came walking by. 'Hey, R!' she said. 'How's everything going?'
This time I turned to stick my butt at her and said, 'Peachy. How are you?' And all was poked, and right with the world.