This is Not a Third-World Country

(Out for our first anniversary dinner.) 

So last night I was talking to BigD.  She sent a lovely "going home"* outfit for Pickle, so I called her to thank her, to catch up and also to whine about various "I'm sick of being pregnant"** sort of things.  

In the course of conversation, she mentioned that she ran into a friend at a party.  This friend's son (who is about my age) married a woman from another country and are expecting a baby as well.  But they went home to Gainesvegas to wait out the final months until the baby is born. 

So this friend, who isn't the first one to say so, mentioned that they were surprised that I was having our baby in Norway.  

And a second ago, I checked the stats for their daughter-in-law's particular country, which is associated with many things that tend to be somewhat negative.  And, unsurprisingly, I suppose, I find that it has one of the highest infant mortality rates in its region of the world and one of the lowest standards of maternal care. 

So it's totally understandable that this couple would jet off to a safer place to deliver their baby. 

That is not the way it is in Norway. 

I've written of the medical system "flaws," many of which I am not into.  I am not on board with the all-natural, and abhor the bullying into it.  I would rather have a doctor, not only follow me through the pregnancy, but also be there when Pickle arrives.  And I won't even get started about the easy drug access and the lack of choice about how he will eat once he arrives.

But Norway is safe and completely focused on family and babies.  

And in the past week, I've started feeling much better about it. 

After our appointment with Kari, the Wonder Wife, Husband, without my knowledge went back to the hospital.  He searched out the head of the department and re-explained everything. Together they amended my chart and registration---which lovely Kari had filled in to say merely "Anxious American"---to reflect my notes and wishes.  

And last week, my doctor sent a note to the department saying I was feeling pressured and made an appointment for Husband and me to talk to another midwife on staff at the hospital.  

A few days ago we went and instead of the "It will all be fine, we will take care of you" dismissiveness we've had thus far, she explained the national process and offered advice on how to navigate better.  

So, really, most likely, it's all going to be fine.  

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*For those of you not from the Southern United States, let me explain.  When a baby leaves the hospital, he or she must be dressed up in some sort of finery for the photos and the ride home.  This is important.  And no, Husband did not understand it either.  We opened it together and knowing better than to tease or mock, especially right now, he said "Ohhhhh, so these are the times when we pretend Pickle is a doll and you just dress him up." Clearly.  Also, because the ride home is relatively short, I may make Husband take a drive through town just because it seems like we should enjoy the schmancy outfit, which is really cute, but I won't show it now.  I'd hate to ruin the surprise. 

**Too boring for words. Suffice to say, among other things I cannot sleep, I waddle and I am now shaped like a beer-gutted redneck.  Seriously, check the photo.  If I had stubble and was wearing a stained tank top, you may for a moment wonder if I was about to give birth to a keg. 

(Last Sunday at 39 weeks.)