A week has passed since our visit to Winnie Palmer and moderately alarming diagnosis (see last entry six inches down. The nice thing about my slack writing is readers don't have to search among dozens of archived entries to arrive seven days in the past; I also don't have to worry about a comfortable income from blog-driven ad revenue). On Tuesday, Kel put her arm in Dr. Crofoot's blood pressure cuff and got a reading of 130/80. Much better. Her ankle swelling also decreased. But not our consternation. Friday doc insists that the pressure will continue to increase, yet the escalation can be slowed by plenty of rest. Meaning: "stop working." He ensures us that regardless, she'll be a mother before her next Winnie appointment three weeks hence. Tuesday doc, though reacting to a reduced pressure, claims she's fit as a fiddle, can return to work, and indeed should walk and swim and hula hoop, whatever, it's tres bien, and delivery won't come for at least four, heck, why not six weeks?
What to do, what to do... Do we listen to "play it safe" Friday doc, since he came sharply dressed in a tie and eased the mood with some light chatter about his incessant duel with boredom leading him to dive into law school? Or should we be slapping the EASY button as advised by laissez-faire Tuesday's doc, in his green scrubs and hedgehog haircut? It seems that throughout this pregnancy the advice from our two doctors has been as parallel as a plus sign. Are we the hapless victims of a conspiracy to confuse? Dare we plunge into publications pointing us to the light? No, I say again! (Scroll down another half foot). We turn to Nostradamus, or failing that, a blog poll.
No comments:
Post a Comment