30 weeks with Karis
Let me preface this post with the assurance that this blog isn’t about to turn into the Primamomma Pregnancy Extravaganza Blog, where it’s all pregnancy, all the time! We’re already into the second trimester, and you’ve heard nary a peep about it. (It’s hard for me to stomach those women that wax poetic about every little discomfort. I have a few of them on Facebook. I think to myself, Jesus, this woman is the longest gestating creature to have ever procreated. Birth that thing already. Of course, then they give birth and all you hear about are the sleepless nights…) (Now a few of my Facebook friends are wondering if I’m talking about them. Hehe)
So, today’s post is technically about the fact that I’m pregnant – but only in so much that if I were not pregnant, I wouldn’t be talking about this topic:
Midwives.
I want one.
I gave birth to my first two children in hospitals. Both experiences were as far from my birthing ideal as is possible without having had to cut me open. You can read about Karis’ birth here. I never blogged about Brecken’s birth – but it involved TWO hospitals, a rambunctious two year old, more pitocin, another epidural, a three hour separation from my newborn, and an unwanted Hep B vaccination. I have seen monkey shit-fights at the zoo with more organization than some hospitals.
This time around, I started seeing the same OB/GYN I went to when I miscarried last year. She’s a wonderful doctor. The office is right next to my house, so it’s super easy to get to appointments. During one of these appointments they asked me which hospital I was planning to go to for delivery. They were affiliated with two local hospitals – one of which is my dad’s old stomping grounds. It was at that moment that my brain kind of sparked and I thought, Wait a minute. What the hell am I doing? I was mindlessly easing myself into another hospital birth, simply because that’s the way I had always done things. Where was my presence of mind to realize if I didn’t want a hospital birth, I shouldn’t be hanging out with an OB?
I went home and researched local birthing centers. I found a wonderful place right down the road, and I made an appointment to tour the facilities yesterday. Internet, they had me at “hello”. It was a very welcoming place, completely devoid of hemp mumus or the overwhelming scent of patchouli oil. (I say this because my mom seems to be convinced that anyone associated with giving birth outside of a hospital must surely be a hippy.) The style of the place was actually quite chic. I’d call it sophisticated feminine. It’d be like giving birth in a boutique or a really nice hotel.
It wasn’t just the interior design choices of the place though. It was the women! They were very warm and friendly. I was there for an hour and a half. Read that again. An hour and a half. For a tour. If I’m ever at the doctor’s office for an hour and a half, seventy five of those minutes is spent in the waiting room, and ten of them is spent alone in a tiny exam room sitting on a paper sheet that invariably gets stuck to my butt. (Insurance companies only reimburse doctors for five to ten minutes per patient. That’s why you only see them for brief moments.) Here is where my story takes a bit of a ranty turn. Gird your loins, Internet.
My husband. My husband is many things. Some good, some annoying. One thing he is, is cheap. Dude likes to pinch a penny. This quality of his is an asset much of the time. We don’t live above our means. He keeps us from going nuts in the over-spending department. That’s great. One area in which one should not be cheap, is when your wife is giving birth to your child. You know, giving birth – when a fully formed human being passes through your wife’s body and enters into the world to continue your bloodline. Then. That’s when you shouldn’t be cheap.
If your woman wants to give birth in a hot air balloon over sub-Sarhan Africa accompanied by Emperor penguins and a gelato vender, you should only ask yourself two questions. 1. Is it safe? and 2. Do you know any gelato venders that aren’t afraid of heights?
Only one insurance company considers midwives to be in-network. Only one. We have changed insurance companies three times in the last seven months because of shuffling things at Jesse’s work. We now have Blue Shield. Guess which ONE insurance company covers midwives? That’s right, Blue Shield. It’s like the birthing Gods were smiling down upon me and saying, “Yes, Kristy, you may finally have access to a midwife.”
However there’s a catch. The birthing center – which has been delivering babies since 1995, and is clearly a legitimate, trustworthy facility – requires their fees be paid up front, then after the baby is born, they submit your claim to the insurance company, and the insurance company reimburses you directly. When Jesse heard this he immediately jumped to the conclusion that the birthing center was clearly affiliated with the Mexican drug cartel, because only a sinister, fake establishment would insist on payment up front.
He threw a tantrum and actually asked me in a rather pissy way, “My God, why can’t you just have the baby in a hospital like a normal person?” I calmly explained my dissatisfaction with my hospital experiences. He didn’t seem to care. My wanting a natural childbirth experience was inconveniencing him, Internet. The poor man.
Frankly, I am rather unimpressed with my husband’s lack of sensitivity this time around. He was wonderful during my first two pregnancies, kind of an aloof dick during my miscarriage, and now an outright hostile participant this time around. (Sorry ladies, he’s taken!)
So I will spend a majority of my day on the phone with Blue Shield getting them to commit in writing to the fact that they consider midwives in-network, and will reimburse us for our medical expenses. Then I will put up a personal ad for a surrogate husband who is willing to fawn over me and accompany me to appointments, and be my labor coach, and promise not to want to name my child after a Power Ranger. Jesse will probably be at the birth – unless he’s got an important meeting or something – but I’ll let my surrogate husband cut the cord and hand out the cigars. Wait – are surrogate husbands considered in-network? Crap.
