Enter, Dr. Risky

We met the specialist Friday. Although the appointment had only been scheduled for a week, it felt like it had been years coming.

As it turns out, the specialist my doctor referred me to wasn’t covered under our insurance, so we were instead referred to the head of the maternal-fetal medicine department at the U of U medical center. I’ll have to remember to stop cursing my insurance company… so often.

Because of who I was seeing, I was expecting to be interviewed by a bored intern with a clipboard.  Instead, Toby and I spent about forty-five minutes sitting around a small table, discussing our reproductive history with the specialist himself. We’ll call him “Dr. Risky”, a moniker I am borrowing from Heather.

At no point did he check his watch, take a call, leave the room or let anyone interrupt. He repeatedly invited questions and answered them all.

In the seven years that we’ve been trying to have children we’ve sat around having a non-exam discussion with a doctor precisely once; at the initial consult the first time I was pregnant. It lasted about ten minutes, half of which was spent discussing the baseball camp my doctor had gone to. At the follow-up visit after my miscarriage, the only thing I can recall my doctor saying is “It looks like everything came out ok.” which was either a terrible choice of words or an unforgivably bad joke.

I am sure future visits with Dr. Risky will be much shorter. He’s further away than my original OB. I imagine he’ll be hard to get an appointment with at times.

I also think it’s all worth it, just to see someone who is really listening.