puppies and babies, revisited

First a little nod to dutch, whose kind mention on blogging baby (helped along by subsequent links here and here) managed to increase my single-day readership by 1,384% on Thursday. There must be a word for this phenomenon. If any of you out there in weblogosphereland can enlighten me, please share.

Moving on.

So the other day marked d.w.'s and my third trip to our puppy-resuscitating midwife. Always a memorable time. This time around seemed to be the day that many of Sheryl's patients felt like calling and wanting to come in RIGHT NOW, which they couldn't, because the rest of them were just walking in off the street and seeing if they could catch her for a minute without bothering to call at all.

And keep in mind, all of this is happening in the same small, cluttered (no, cluttered isn't the word for it -- this is more like it) corner of the upstairs of a parish house where we are having our appointment. So d.w. is sitting there telling Sheryl about bodily fluids of some kind or another, when Sheryl looks up past our shoulders at someone coming in the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm Bobbi Ann Wilkins."

"Oh, you were supposed to be here yesterday."

"Yeah but the school nurse said the appointment changed, and—"

"Ok, have a seat, I'll fit you in."

Bobbi Ann was now joined by her mother, to whom I wanted to scream, "What is wrong with you, lady?! Don't you know you are perpetuating a stereotype unjustly thrust upon millions of hard-working, underprivelaged, midcontinental Americans of European descent?! I can't help you if you don't help me!"

But I held my tongue.

This little exchange, though, got me thinking about the rather unusual patient demographics of this particular practice. On the one hand, you have young crunchy couples wanting a non-medicalized home birth with a midwife of a similar philosophical bearing (read: a kindly old hippie). On the other hand, you have people who end up there because they get knocked up and have no insurance, and everywhere else asks for immigration documents. Oh yeah, and Bobbi Ann and her mom.

And to think what we'd be missing out on if we were at some boring hospital.

Comments

[Papa Bradstein]

OK, that EBay house is hysterically funny, but also spookily reminiscent of a house that my uncle used to have. It wasn't where he lived; it might have been just a place to store stuff; it was also fascinating to a young Papa Bradstein to see things like 78s so old they only had a recording on one side.

Here's hoping 3B doesn't get that gene.

[dear wife]

You know you forgot the best part of the appointment. We heard the heartbeat and it was strong and healthy.