So, as a new parent, I’m discovering new things to worry about on the daily. On lucky days, a worry might be diminished. Yesterday was such a day.
We loaded baby man into the car to see a pediatric urologist at the behest of his pediatrician. She told us he’d likely need surgery, but that I needn’t worry (ha! Doctor, you know not my powers of anxiety!) as it’s a routine surgery.
Routine or not, I’d prefer my baby man not be put under.
The nurse practitioner and urologist were very nice. They compared baby’s balls to these wooden ball beads on a kind of fucked up rosary. His were big, but fine: okay, within the realm of what’s considered normal, not an emergency. And! The doc is giving baby man six months to reabsorb the fluid. Yay!
Is it shitty that I can’t wait to tell our pediatrician? Not because I think she’ll be happy (she will!), but because when I asked if he had to have the surgery, she snapped back: well, do you want him to be able to have kids? Do you want to have to take him to the ER?
And I get it. I’m sure she deals with reluctant parents all the damn time. But she didn’t need to correct so far over to disaster. I like her as a doctor- she seems to truly care about our baby- but I’m considering finding a new one. It’s probable I’m over-reacting, plus lazy, so it’s unlikely I’ll actually follow through with this. Sigh.
Somehow I thought I’d be a cool mom. Resistant to fear.
I try, I really do. But it’s so easy to tell myself everything is okay, and so fucking difficult to truly feel that. On days I do, I feel accomplished. On days I don’t, I try not to beat myself up (another super power [the beating, not the abstaining]). Right now I feel silly admitting this- there are so many struggling with so much more, and here I am, typing this up on my iPhone (far inferior to an android, imo, but that’s neither here nor there), feeling sorry for myself when baby man is beautiful. Is healthy. Is happy.
You know what it is? It’s that present moment shit. It really, really is. When I’m here, I know he’s fine. When I’m not, the world is vibrant white; white on white on white; spirals of hells too bright to look into or look away from; caught, suspended in white fear: its cold fingers, it’s sharpend teeth.