My weekly eight hours of babysitting relief are too precious to waste sitting in a doctor's waiting room so I opted to bring Eliza with me to the appointment. I came armed with a new sticker book based on the character Eloise and miniature tea cups and saucers. We got through a few stickers in the waiting room, then I followed the nurse's aid to the examination room, took off my pants and settled on the lovely "chaise lounge" for a tea party with my daughter.
Strapped in the stroller, Eliza seemed to enjoy clinking her "teacup" with mine. Fortunately the doctor didn't keep us waiting too long. "Oh, it's girl," Eliza said when the doctor looked at her and smiled. Proudly holding up her bright pink teacup, Eliza said, "I've got my tea."
Since there wasn't a great spot away from the action, I told the doctor to leave the stroller at the foot of the exam bed. "I doubt she'll be traumatized," I said. Famous last words.
Eliza's angle allowed her the perfect view of my vaginal exam and ultrasound. "What's girl doing?" Eliza asked as the doctor conducted the vaginal ultrasound. "She checking your cooter? She checking your tushie?"
"What is she saying," the doctor asked, her face bright red. I calmly explained that yes, I've taught my daughter the word cooter.
"Oh my," the doctor shook her head. Apparently, she has no plans to award me the title of mother of the year.
It appears that my miscarriage has gone okay. Sometimes, the bleeding goes on for more than two weeks. She didn't notice anything troublesome, had them take blood and when I asked her why this keeps happening, before I could even get the words out, she said "age."
So there you go, I'm an old fart. She told me if I really want to have another baby, she'd recommend me to a fertility specialist right away. Being that I'm trying to get out of a bad relationship, I'll have to take a pass on that one.
This is the hardest reality of all: knowing that the only way I might have the second child I so desperately want is to stay in this horrific non-relationship. I could stay with him, continue to allow him to control me, pretend that he treats me well and try to ignore the fact that I'm not even a priority as far as he's concerned. To illustrate this for you, let me tell you about my week--on Monday, he worked late, didn't see him. Tuesday, he came home from work with his son, I went to class. When I came home, he was in bed. Wednesday, he went out after work, didn't see him. Thursday, he came home because the other kids were here and played cards with them while I bathed and went through Eliza's nighttime routine. Friday night, didn't see him. Now it's Saturday and he's at the movies.
The loneliness of being a full-time mother can be almost paralyzing sometimes. And her father isn't even a friend I can call to cheer me up.
So I'm making the choice to have one child in my life. I'm making the choice to walk away and in walking away, I leave behind so many possibilities.
"This one seems like she a pretty big handful," the doctor said when we were done and I seemed ambivalent about the fertility specialist. For what it's worth, I get the feeling this doctor isn't for women of "an advanced age" giving birth.
She knelt down to my daughter and said, "I remember when you came here the last time with your mother. You didn't talk so much then."
But she entertained us, now didn't she?
I try to think that maybe I'll make something of myself, something that will allow me the financial opportunity to adopt. And then I'll have the second child, the little family I so desperately want.