I am like every other woman in the world—busy. To say I had put off my “lady doctor” appointment is an understatement. My next appointment was scheduled for three years ago. Of course, I put it off because, not only am I a busy mother of three children, business owner, homeschool teacher, and crazy person, it’s not my favorite experience in the world. I am going to be honest right here folks. I absolutely hate having my finger pricked. I like to think I have a very high tolerance for pain, but that right there drives me crazy. It’s like someone purposefully giving you a paper cut. Anyway, let’s just say I was due for a visit. After much harassment from my mother and husband I made the call.
I hate talking on the phone. It’s also one of my least favorite things to do. It’s not up there with having my finger pricked, but definitely in the top 25. The nurse answers and I explain what I need to do. You can almost hear the lack of shock in her voice when she says, “So, you haven’t been back in three years?” Let’s just say, I wasn’t known around the office as the most cooperative or calm pregnant person. I explain about my busy life and how I had always planned to, but never got around to it. I can feel her eyes through the phone. She asks me who I would like to see, and I say the name of the woman who I have seen since I was 19. A wonderful midwife who has talked me through the beginnings of becoming a woman, three pregnancies, one miscarriage, and countless other life milestones. “Ummmmmm……” is what I hear on the other end of the line. “I am sorry ma'am, but due to your age, you are no longer able to do your yearly visits with a midwife.”
Here is my first confession. I wanted to choke her. And I know this receptionist. We laugh and chat every time I begrudgingly fill out the paperwork and complain about peeing in the cup. I wanted to scream out, “I AM NOT OLD. And even if you believe that fact based on a number you see on my file, it’s not true.” I just sat there for a second while I internalized never seeing the woman who had talked me through so many huge events and decisions in my life. She was a calming voice, and at times, the voice of reason when I wasn’t so reasonable. It was like a kick to the gut. When I was finally able to respond, she gave me some options of female doctors I could see. (Real mom moment here—I don’t like male gynecologists. Let’s just say I had one during a pregnancy that tried to pull my esophagus out of my lady parts while checking my baby. Ever since then, I just decided that I would stick with the women.) I chose a name from the list of TWO (yeah, you heard that right—only two) women she offered. We made the appointment and I kind of deflated when I hung up the phone.
Poor Anthony took the brunt of my anger as I blamed him for making me call in the first place. I wasn’t seriously angry at him, but he took it like a champ. It’s probably the first time since I learned that I was no longer eligible to be a Disney princess at Disney World that someone told me I was too old.
Here’s confession two—I wanted to “accidentally” forget my appointment. The thought crossed my mind. Surely my midwife would make a house call right? She loved me more than any other patient. I am sure of it. As I watched Anthony rearrange his whole schedule to make my office visit possible, I realized the selfishness in this thought. He really did everything he could to make my visit as stress free on his end as he could.
Now, to make this visit even more awesome, about a week before, I took a dive off of a high ledge in Gainesville during a photo shoot. Okay, that’s dramatic. My weak right ankle (don’t you DARE think old) decided to be a drama queen and gave out. I was only on my second shoot of the morning so I don’t know why it was such a big deal. So not only was I going to this most hated visit, I was going as a gimp. I would look like the old person she had insisted I was over the phone. Yay. Not to mention the pain. Here they were going to prick my finger while my ankle was the size of a small cantaloupe. Greeatttt……
I hobbled into the office trying to make it without the crutches I had left in the car. I was determined that if I was going in gimpy, I was going to be on my own two feet. I walked in the office, signed the sign in sheet and chatted with the same receptionist. (She’s so nice ya’ll! She asked me about my business, how I was, etc. She was genuinely interested in what I had been up to the last three years.) I sat down looking at all the new moms with their hubbies excitedly talking about what they expected at this visit.
Confession three makes me seem so petty but here it is—I was jealous. In my mind, they were able to see a midwife and I wasn’t. In fact, they were probably going to see MY midwife. (At this point, I was probably delusional from the foot pain. I am praying that’s what it was.) I know most of you thought I would say I was so jealous because they were having a baby and starting that awesome journey. No! I am very happy with where I am currently! I seriously was jealous of the fact that my amazing midwife would be the one babying, I mean, examining them.
I was called back by my favorite nurse in the world. Poor woman has seen me in all kinds of situations and still had to see me at the baseball field like a normal person. I don’t know how she does it with a straight face. As I take the walk of death toward the finger prick I knew was inevitable, she says, “Jump up here and let me weigh you.” Ummmmm…….I looked down at the huge boot on my foot which I knew was probably keeping me upright at the moment. “Do you deduct the weight of the boot?”
Confession four—I was embarrassed about being weighed. I don’t know why. But the thought of her looking at my weight (the one person who knows what I actually weighed during every pregnancy) with the added boot weight was just horrific in my mind. She looked at me and said in jest, “Do you know how much it weighs?” I swallowed my pride and climbed up. As I watched the scale slide further over I just cringed. This just kept getting better and better.
It was then that she showed me to a room. WAIT!! She didn’t prick my finger! I don’t know if she forgot or if it’s not practice anymore, but there was no way I was bringing it up and I almost skipped to the room behind her. Okay, it was more of a hobble, but it was a peppy hobble.
She handed me the standard paper couture gown and as I rocked it, I sat on the table trying to figure out how my boot was going to fit in a stirrup. Then I started to look around. I saw the familiar posters of pregnant mothers showing the various stages. I saw pamphlets on different types of cancer and treatments. And then it hit me.
Confession five is the hardest of all. I was a horrible, horrible person. Here I was, sitting on this table waiting on a regular check-up, with regular every day problems. For the most part, I had been healthy for the three years I had so conveniently skipped my check-ups. So many women walked into that room, looked at those same posters, wore the paper gown and had much bigger problems than weight, a busted ankle or a pricked finger. They were wondering if their baby would have a heartbeat. They were trying to decide how to tell their family about a diagnosis that might change their lives forever. They were crying, feeling hurt, alone, and angry.
I felt terribly ungrateful. As I sat there on that table, I realized just how blessed I am. Sometimes, as humans, our lives get so complicated. We get overwhelmed and frustrated. Each one of us has moments in the valley where life just doesn’t seem to get any better. At this point, I was pretty low in the valley as I sat there on the table drowning in my “problems.” It took putting myself in someone else’s shoes to realize that the things I was allowing to eat at me weren’t as big as they seemed. I have been that person sitting in that room praying over and over, “Let them see something, let there be a heartbeat.” It’s ten million times worse than a bum ankle.
It also reminded me that I am called to see past my own life and circumstances, and comfort those around me. It was a God thing that the very next Sunday School lesson we sat through the following Sunday was about reaching out and comforting others. It’s more than just offering to pray or sending them a card, but actually being present in the lives of those who are hurting. It was on that table that I decided that I would be as present as possible when I knew of someone going through a struggle. Instead of offering to bring them food, actually doing it without asking. I would not only send a card, but make a follow-up call or visit. Instead of offering to keep their kids, come over and drag all their kiddos out to our car and to the park.
Some of our friends will never ask for our help. Even if they really, really need it, they will try to keep that need hidden because they don’t want to come across as weak. I am that person. Social media has become another place where women especially feel the need to keep up appearances. Most of you know, I try to keep it as real as possible on that end. But when I get in over my head, when I am really struggling, those are the times I am absent from social media. If I can’t post reality, I usually just shy away from it entirely. If you see a friend missing from social media, reach out. There is probably a reason.
In a world of me, me, me, it’s time we make a change. I believe our country is at a crossroads. One of the ways for us to get back on the right path is to think about others more than ourselves. We need to show love, even when we don’t feel so amazing or loved ourselves. Seeing beyond our own circumstances and realizing that we can make a difference in the lives of others is one of God’s gifts to us. We can be the change. And when we start moving beyond our own circumstances, other people around us will follow. So stop sitting on the table, get up and make a difference!
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