A Missed Appointment. The Mood Quiz. An Unexpected Source of Support.
I was on the way to my post-natal appointment with my six-week-old baby, Sophie, and my two-year-old son, Peter. Sophie was screaming like she was being murdered. Peter was staring at her from the other side of the backseat, yelling out to me every few minutes that she was still screaming. Google Maps showed twenty-five minutes left, the apathetic blue line leading somewhere off-screen.
A traffic light loomed green ahead. Beware the stale green light. (Driver’s Ed stays with you, doesn’t it?) If it would just stay green enough long enough for me to coast on through, if I could just avoid hitting the breaks, or going over any bump (the light turned yellow), or taking the left turn too hard, any minute now she’d fall asleep—
Red.
Pulled over on the side of the road, I dialed the number for the clinic. Out the car window were the fairgrounds, dormant after the Marshfield Christmas lights festival, crusted in old snow. The clinic was part of a consortium, and the man who picked up told me to hold while he connected me.
Cheerful music played on the other end of the line. Sparrows pecked the dirty snow. Sophie went on screaming. Then the call went to voicemail. I left a frantic message apologizing (why?) and asking if I could reschedule, and we went home.
They never called back.
Several weeks later, I happened to have a physical appointment. I wouldn’t have attempted that feat either, but I needed new contacts, which meant a referral.
While I sat waiting in the doctor's office breastfeeding Sophie, one eye on Peter, who was perched on a chair eyeing the doctor's swivel stool, one eye on the mood quiz I realized I was failing, the doctor and her student assistant walked in. They whipped out some stickers for Peter just as he was about to launch himself belly-first onto the swivel stool.
The student assistant happened to be a lactation consultant.
A traffic light loomed green ahead. Beware the stale green light. (Driver’s Ed stays with you, doesn’t it?) If it would just stay green enough long enough for me to coast on through, if I could just avoid hitting the breaks, or going over any bump (the light turned yellow), or taking the left turn too hard, any minute now she’d fall asleep—
Red.
Pulled over on the side of the road, I dialed the number for the clinic. Out the car window were the fairgrounds, dormant after the Marshfield Christmas lights festival, crusted in old snow. The clinic was part of a consortium, and the man who picked up told me to hold while he connected me.
Cheerful music played on the other end of the line. Sparrows pecked the dirty snow. Sophie went on screaming. Then the call went to voicemail. I left a frantic message apologizing (why?) and asking if I could reschedule, and we went home.
They never called back.
Several weeks later, I happened to have a physical appointment. I wouldn’t have attempted that feat either, but I needed new contacts, which meant a referral.
While I sat waiting in the doctor's office breastfeeding Sophie, one eye on Peter, who was perched on a chair eyeing the doctor's swivel stool, one eye on the mood quiz I realized I was failing, the doctor and her student assistant walked in. They whipped out some stickers for Peter just as he was about to launch himself belly-first onto the swivel stool.
The student assistant happened to be a lactation consultant.