change
I sit on the wooden, upholstered chairs, looking up at the patient pamphlets, staring at the exam table, the sink, taking in the strange irony to be on the other side of the medicine, the powerlessness of being a patient. The nurse has ushered me in, asked me to pee and recorded my weight. She scowls at the scale, you've lost four pounds in just over a week, she tells me and even though I have every reason to know better, I feel accused, responsible.
I'm waiting for whoever has time in their schedule to see me. I had called to ask for a simple prescription for heartburn medicine, was taking way beyond the daily maximum dose of pepcid and prilosec, although over the counter, is a class C medication. Everything I ate either hurt too much or came back up again. I have been given antibiotics (too broad spectrum for a pregnant patient with nausea and vomiting but they insisted and I conceded) for an asymptomatic urinary tract infection. Now I have an upper, and lower, complete intestinal insurrection.
No, I am not willing to take prilosec, I tell the nurse on the phone. Yes, I do know it's the same class of drugs as the others but until the FDA changes its safety profile I won't risk it. She impatiently puts me on hold. One minute later she picks up the phone again, listen you're just going to have to come in if you won't take what we're offering you.
I hear the NP outside the door, rustling her papers, reading through my chart. I have a towel to my mouth to absorb the copious amounts of saliva I can't bear to swallow. She walks in and takes me in--again I feel small and powerless, the irony of being both a practioner and a patient.
But I am good. I only answer the questions she asks, don't push or goad or insist, even though I simply want to say listen, a cephalosporin is a bit too broad spectrum, it's making me sicker than I was before, just give me some macrobid. Secondly, I'd like a script for nexium or protonix because I know they are class B and prilosec is class C and I will jump into traffic if this heartburn continues.
This is the inevitable dance, the difficulty of being both at once--capable and helpless.
In the end she writes me a script for Protonix that my insurance won't fill and changes my antibiotic. It will take days, they say, to get the authorizations in place. I consider buying it outright, at Andy's urging, but it's $250 a bottle. On stupid principle, I refuse.
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Night is coming quickly now that it's autumn. I haven't been to the barn in a week, too sick or weak or nauseated. I hadn't told my trainer yet, foolish, perhaps, but I wasn't ready for the possibility of being grounded after being horseless for so long. I would give up at four months, I told myself, once my body is too altered to keep my balance.
I groom and tack up quickly, a flashy bay gelding who is new to me and pacing. I didn't even pause or reconsider before hopping up, still lithe and nimble. We go around the arena a few times, he's hot and athletic and ready, eyeing the jumps at every bend. We get our pattern, I'm third in the sequence. The few other girls in the class are all in high school and they are today the rider I was so long ago. I bite my lip to temper my ego.
On our turn he explodes into the right lead and it occurs to me immediately that I am way too weak and he is way too strong. We haphazard the course and just as we're going over the blue vertical the nausea swells and I consider leaning over and vomiting over his right shoulder. I miss my next jump and bring him in to circle. My trainer is yelling at me from the center of the arena, the high school girls are smirking. I lean forward, drop the reigns and fight the urge to vomit as she runs up to me. She is saying something about him being strong and to do it again but when she arrives she stops, cocks her head and says what the hell?
I'm pregnant, I pant, and I think I'm going to barf on your feet.
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Later, after the tack is away, the aisle swept and the buckets filled, I walk into her office.
You're on the flat from now on, she tells me. I know, I say. It's just not worth being stupid, she looks up over her entries for the up coming show. I fiddle in front of her, feeling foolish and small.
She puts her pen and paper down and regards me squarely. I rode until I was six months pregnant. It was really dumb. God forbid something happens. I, for one, wouldn't be able to forgive myself.
I nod. Okay, I say and turn to leave.
Besides, she says with a huge smile but without looking up, if you barf on my feet you'll have to buy me new boots. And these are very expensive and very Italian.
