Bite Me Michelle Bachmann

It's been made clear to me during my years of training and practice that pediatricians are meant to be happy, comforting people who love to cuddle babies and who want to fix boo boos and all sorts of other adorable things. So fine, I wear socks that have sheep and teddy bears on them because, let's be honest, they are what I would choose to wear anyway. And I try to be a nice person. I try to smile at work and even just out on the street. I try to pick up trash when I find some. I open doors for people. I give up my seat on the T to older people or women who are burstingly pregnant.

I try to be a good person. I try to behave.

But then Michelle Bachmann went on national television and said that the vaccine for HPV, a vaccine that prevents cervical CANCER, causes mental retardation.

The words that I have in response to this heinously irresponsible statement are not words I'm allowed to say in front of my daughter. In fact, those words, those dirtiest of insults that I have at my disposal, are not dirty enough for the venom I feel.

To be in the public spotlight, as Bachmann and other politicians are, brings with it a certain responsibility. It is a responsibility that should be akin to the one that I accepted when I became a doctor. You should promise to be nice. You should promise to do what is best for people and not what you think will be politically advantageous. You should promise to make sure that the things you say, things people will rely on to make important life decisions, are actually true.

Bachmann has failed in this before and she failed again and again this week as she continued to spout completely false allegations. So just to be clear. Women DIE from cervical cancer. There is now a vaccine to PREVENT more women from DYING. And to say that the vaccine is dangerous before a national audience because "a woman...said her daughter...suffered mental retardatio as a result" (of the vaccine) without ever looking into the credibility of such a claim is atrocious.

What sort of executive leader would this woman be if someone told her that Canada was evil and was planning to invade Buffalo and so she ordered a military offensive based only on hearsay? Have I gone to far? No, I don't think so. But she has.

What can I do about it? Not much. But I did just write a check to Planned Parenthood. I guess that's a start.

The Pregnant Pause

I was barely pregnant with Emmaline when a colleague asked me to evaluate a patient he believed needed to be transferred to the ICU where I was working. Chatting with the family about how moving their child to another floor would allow her to have a nurse and team of doctors watch her more closely, I did not think to move out of the room when the portable x-ray machine rolled in. The friend who had called me in motioned me violently into the hall.

"Don't you want to step out?" he asked. Then, after a pause, "Congratulations."

News, it seems, spreads quickly in a hospital where pregnancies (even in those first delicate weeks when miscarriage is entirely possible) must be protected against radiation, certain chemotherapeutic or radiation therapies, and the variety of other hazards our young patients carry. Also, and this quickly became apparent to everyone I worked with, it was impossible not to throw up after being awake for more than twenty-four hours straight.

Being a resident and being pregnant are both enormously draining and doing both at the same time was exhausting. Generally, however, I found comfort in the fact that nearly every other married female in my program became pregnant within months of each other and approximately 9 months before we were scheduled to finish our training. So as awful as it seemed during certain overnight shifts, we were in it together and the end was in sight.

This time, planning a pregnancy was somewhat less complicated. Yes, Emmaline would have a serious transition to endure from she-who-is-adored-by-all-and-receives-undivided-attention into Big Sister and one-who-must-learn-to-share. Yes, my husband has just (at the request of his employers, who are footing the bill) just started attending law school in addition to real work. Yes, I still work with snotty nosed children who carry horrible viruses like CMV and (soon at least) influenza and pose a real risk to the future child it is my job to protect.

Yes, I am still a little bit crazy and, yes, I use a lot of hand sanitizer.

But I was also feeling a lot more level headed about the whole enterprise. Did we get pregnant the first month we tried? No. Did I freak out? Okay, maybe a little. But I got over it. And then we did get pregnant and I thought to myself, I can handle this maturely, coyly even. I can play it cool and not make a big deal out of it until people start to ask me why I'm so fat.

That was the plan.

Then I had to do a sedation for a nine-year-old with a broken arm that needed reduction and it was just me and the orthopedist and the nurse and the kid in a room with the fluoroscopy machine and no lead drapes in sight.

"I guess you should leave if you are prengnat," the orthopod joked to us before shooting the film.

The kid did not move, since he was sedated. The nurse chuckled wistfully. I froze for one single moment and then I ran.

In the end it worked out for the best since I am not actually coy or cool or even mature. And having an ER full of nurses know there is a potential baby in your belly and an ultrasound idling in the hall means a whole lot of extra chances to take a look and say hello.

The Terrible Twos

As Emmaline's second birthday approached she continued to be a wonderful child. Yes, there were several screaming fits triggered by no discernible cause, but she also demonstrated extraordinary caring and love both in her actions and with her ever growing vocabulary. For the most part that love was directed at cats, or the dog, or her stuffed animals (who enjoyed frequent tea parties and gifts of band aids for their various boo boos), but she also, on occasion, would spontaneously utter the phrase, "Mama, I love you." How terrible could the twos be if they came wrapped in sentiment like that?

The thing was, we reasoned unreasonably, Em has developed some fairly impressive communication skills. Upon being presented with yogurt for breakfast accompanied by something as insulting and bourgeois as a plastic infant spoon, she made her objection and its cause abundantly clear. "No, Mama, proper spoon."

Fine. Stainless steel flatware for the little lady. And here's hoping she never realizes there's a drawer with actual silver.

So maybe the terrible twos wouldn't be so very terrible. She can indicate needs and wants, which the experts all say is where many of the frustrations of this age stem. She plays well with others.

She shares things like her wagon and toys and her rocking chairs without reservation.

Her block stacking skills continue to become more refined, which is sure to continue to be a party favorite through high school and maybe even into college.

And she has learned that it's important to travel in style, even just to the doctor's office to get your flu shot.

Could it be possible that we would reap the benefits of all these milestones without suffering the deafening screams of the tantrum that must be had for the tantrum's sake if for no other reason? That Emmaline would learn to choke back her tears for long enough to explain, "Band aid fell down the backpack," allowing us to rescue said soiled bandage from the pocket into which it had slipped off her finger and disappeared, thus averting disaster?

Yes. But only sometimes.

For though she continues to impress with her solo performances of Baa Baa Black Sheep and her recitations of Humpty Dumpty, she also CANNOT BE REASONED WITH when it comes time to bid the playground farewell.

Alas.

We had been doing so well.