Waiting Time

Tuesday:

Hospital appointment set for 12:30 at UCH's shiny antenatal facilities ("why is it anti-baby if it's for pregnant people?" my husband, Mr Singh, had asked the last time we went only to respond with uncharacteristic depth "oh...I thought it meant anti pregnant people..." when told that 'ante' was actually 'before' and 'natal' birth, bless him). Mr Singh declined to attend this trip on the basis that it would take all day, which I dismissed as laziness and a lack of interest in our unborn child, but turned out to be prophetic. and a better use of his time. So off I went on the 476 bus to Euston hoping I could manage a full 40 minute journey without peeing. Arrived five minutes early, but held on to pee and joined the queue feeling smug and like the friend of the NHS I believe my new private-healthcare-free state has turned me into.

"Oh hello....," said the receptionist, "there's a slight delay today"
"How long is slight?" I ask, suspicious of this new 'service orientated' health service
"About an hour and a half"
More than a slight delay but we'll let it slide, I thought with a sigh, "So I have time to go for a cup of tea then?"
"Well, you need to give a sample first," presenting me with the pre-requisite plastic pot, "and we'll take your blood pressure... then you'll have around half an our before you need to be back here.
Now, even my grade B GCSE maths can work out that a quick pee + blood pressure + 30 minutes doesn't equate to one and a half hours, but who was I to argue and so I produced the obligatory small pot of pee, washed soggy fingers (has anyone found a way to pee in the pot without drenching hand?) and sat amongst a room full of pot bellied women rejoicing in the fact that I was the most slim and glamorous woman in the room with just a smidgen of a bulge across my midriff and ankles the rights side of 'slender' in super tight leggings.

Blood pressure taken, pee pot dated and signed, I went off to to find a spot of reading material and a cup of non-caffinated herbal tea. Now, as a woman who has built a daily schedule around regular cups of porcelain staining Asaam or English Breakfast tea (with Earl Grey mid-afternoon for a little variation), I was suprised to find that more than any of the other 'sacrifices' the would-be-mother has to make, the limiting of tea consumption is the hardest to deal with. Bottle of red wine in the evening? Gone. Cigarettes? The odd whiff of second hand after dinner smoke is more than adequate. Italian-spoon-standing-up coffee? A thing of the past. But the recommended 2-3 cups a day of tea is done by 9am as I slurp the last of the tea from the pot over my online news and email reading. Surely the baby can handle a couple more cups of Twinings than that? There are crackwhores out there who gives birth to children clutching a glass pipe, how can such an innocuous leaf By Royal Appointment do damage to a foetus?! But the nanny state (ba-boom) is such that they even want to remove my small remaining pleasures and so with a heavy heart I pick up the nauseatingly virtuous 'zingy' ginger and lemon tea bag and drop it into the hot water filled (recycled) paper cup with the enthusiasm of a taxi driver giving way to a cyclist.

After waiting an indeterminable amount of time (but definitely more than one and a half hours) my name is called by a reassuringly plum-voiced man who introduces himself as my obstetrician. Our meeting is pretty swift, just a few questions, confirmation that the near exhaustion and adolescent levels of food consumption are perfectly normal, followed by a worrying snigger when I mention that we have twins in three out of four parents' families. With a swirl of pen on the form, he informs me that I've a scan next week (which I know) and need to give more blood as they messed up the last test (which I know) and tells me to come back and see him in two months. So, nearly two hours waiting to find out what I already know and to be laughed at when I express concern that I might be having twins. Now, that's worth the national insurance!