My OB Is Pregnant And Due Two Days Before Me — Yikes!

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finding an OB/GYNI really, really like my OB. Too bad she won’t be delivering my baby. Every two weeks, and soon-to-be every week, I make the trek to see her. I actually look forward to these visits, not just because I get to hear my baby’s heartbeat but because I quite enjoy my conversations with my doctor. She is pretty much a really nice obstetrician who also happens to be pregnant. In fact, my OB is due two days before me so, really, my visits to her are more like hanging out and moaning with a good pregnant friend than it is with a doctor.

“My rib cages are killing me! I think the baby’s ass is pushing it up,” I told her yesterday during one of my visits. “Oh, Rebecca. You’re speaking my life,” she responded. I have to admit, though, I’m sometimes worried about my pregnant OB and the treatment I’m getting. I left her office a couple of weeks ago and drove away before realizing that she didn’t even ask me if my baby was moving. Isn’t that a really basic question at this stage of the game? But I totally understand because…wait…what was I saying? Right! I totally understand because I, too, can’t remember a damn train of thought these days.

I can’t remember people’s names, the date, where I’m supposed to be. So I’ve basically given up on making any plans, because chances are I’ll either forget them or I’ll bail last minute because I’m too exhausted. So I also wonder how my OB does it. How does she remember all her patients’ names? How does she work so many hours, dealing with so many people, without totally wanting to take a nap on one of her examining tables (which are surprisingly super comfortable)? Why is she not shoving a burger and fries in her face when she sees me, like I shove brownies in my face every 15 minutes or so?

Also, aside from caring about her as a person, I’m not too invested in my relationship with her. Shouldn’t I be? But how can I be when I know she’s not going to be the one cutting me open? When I was pregnant with my daughter, I made sure my OB, who I knew was going to perform my c-section, understood just how anxious I was. Because I got to know him over months, he could get to know me, too, and he did get to know me really well. I was so comfortable joking with him that I actually said to him, “Okay, you are not to go out and get drunk the night before my operation.” He knew how anxious I was.

This time around, I said to my pregnant OB, “You have to write a note that I’m very anxious and that I’ll be one of her worst patients ever, so she needs to be prepared.” My OB told me not to worry. “I wrote in the notes you have a history with anxiety,” she said. “Okay, but can you circle that or underline it or write it in capital letters?” I asked. My pregnant OB kind of caved and she said, “Okay, I’m putting a star beside the note.”

On the positive side, having an OB who is eight months pregnant like me is kind of nice. She doesn’t argue with me, because I think she really knows what dealing with a pregnant lady is like; she is going through the exact same thing, after all. (Unlike a male OB who may be fantastic but, really, like us women will never really know what it’s like to have a penis, male OBs can never really know what it’s like to deliver or carry a baby.)

She doesn’t want to be the cause of any more tears or added stress, so when I ask her if I could please, please, please have another ultrasound, just because, she agreed because I think she basically doesn’t want to argue with me (and mostly me being pregnant). I can also ask her personal questions, like, “Where are you giving birth?” and, “Are you still working out? Having sex?” and, “How much weight have you gained?” and she can actually answer them truthfully because she’s living the exact same experience I am at the exact same time.

She’s stopping work at the end of this month, which means I’ll be meeting the person who is delivering my baby an entire three days before I give birth. I’m not sure it really matters. I just have to trust that anyone who is performing a c-section knows what they are doing.

And who knows? I could end up in a hospital bed beside her. There are worse hospital roommates I could think of than my pregnant OB, that’s for sure.

How about you? Does it, or did it, matter to you who was delivering your baby?

(Photo: Valua Vitaly/Shutterstock)