Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

We had no idea that in France, it is necessary to officially “declare” our pregnancy so that we could recoup a bit of the costs of normal procedures from Securite Sociale. This includes blood examinations and echographies, but not my time with the “Non-conventionee” OBs. A friend happened to ask whether we ‘declared’ the pregnancy. “What?! That’s craziness!” Why didn’t anyone tell us?

Because we didn’t know, and weren’t informed by our doctor, we filed late - beyond the 14 weeks pregnant mark. Very luckily, at week 16, it still wasn’t a problem to have our declaration accepted. I wondered to myself, now why didn’t she, American doctor at the American Hospital in Paris who can communicate with me effectively in American English, who receives my extra out-of-pocket payment merely for her English skills, mention the importance and time sensitivity of this when I saw her for the first time at 8 weeks and 5 days? She did, however, ramble endlessly about how busy she is. Without having any points of reference or advice on the (French) system, I thought that perhaps she told me nothing because it was still very early in the pregnancy. You would think though, that by our second meeting, she would help a fellow foreigner, American, anti-smoker out a little. I left it at that, thinking that I would just relax. I left thinking, “I like this little lady.” She’s California cool (but from the east coast).

In fact, when I saw her again for my second appointment the other day, at 16 weeks, she was so completely California cool that I had to ask her for the declaration form (this can only be obtained from your doctor). When she handed it to me, she didn’t mention that we were already 2 weeks late with the paperwork. She told me nothing in fact that I needed to know, except how busy she’s been and how she told her assistant earlier in the week that, “If I can’t leave for vacation on Friday, it’s all your fault for overbooking me constantly.” This was her way of telling me that, for my only two appointments at which I didn’t see her until 2 hours past our scheduled time, this is in fact not her fault. That it’s her assistant; I believe her because her assistant is an idiot (further explanation on this below). I’ve been forgiving, waiting patiently for these 2+ hours until past 6pm at both of my appointments. If anybody understands late, it’s me. I always have a couple of books and an entertaining imagination dancing with scenarios and nasty thoughts about people who don’t smile back at me. I know late. I own late. I forgive late and I know that her endless rambling about how much work she has; she’s not lying. There’s always a room full of patients queued to see her as I leave the hospital at close to 7pm. I’d even go as far as to say that she’s cornered the market on knocked up Americans and other English speakers. Another woman, after asking me how long I’d been waiting remarked, “I’ve waited longer.” She’s got surgeries, emergencies, deliveries, and emergency surgeries for deliveries. I nod with understanding and shut her out immediately, not wanting to talk anymore about how much longer I’ll wait, or how long it could conceivably take before my ass fuses with the plastic seats. The assistant has long since left the office and the good doctor has been on her own for over an hour.  I continue to wait patiently.

Let’s back up one week before my squat in the waiting room, though, when I could’ve reached through the phone and strangled The Good Doctor’s barely-English speaking assistant (aforementioned as an idiot) at the American Hospital, which touts English speaking care which I would gladly pay for, if they did in fact speak passable English (I know that I should speak French, blah, blah, but keep in mind that I pay for care specifically from the American Hospital for English speaking care so that I can ask the important questions in English that need to be asked about pregnancy and concerns). Strangely enough, everyone who asks me whether I’m lost in the hallways speaks perfectly, but there’s always some extension of my particular caretakers that don’t.

This Assistant informed me, on the phone, that my echographie (or ultra sound, in English) was taken too early the last time; that I needed to have it taken again in order to determine whether there is a risk of trisomie (or Down’s Syndrome, as I learned from the Internet). After asking her 10 different ways, even in French, during our conversation, to confirm that trisomie translates to Down’s, she answered each time, “I sink so. Maybe. I sink so.” I asked to speak with Dr. McGinnis for a firm answer. She wasn’t available. Understandably, she’s never available. This being my first pregnancy and all, in a foreign country and clueless about both new aspects of my life, I asked the girl “Shouldn’t someone have told me BEFORE I paid for the 160.00 euro echographie that the timeframe which was given to me BY MY DOCTOR to have it done was in fact, too early? Maybe so that I don’t have to pay again? Again, she answered, “I don’t know.”

Let me reiterate: The “English speaking” assistant at the hospital not only barely spoke English, she didn’t know the important, very general information pertaining to pregnancies.  But as I’ve fumed for the last week, ranting to anybody who will stop and listen (Husband) and anyone who’s stuck at lunch with me, I even double checked myself to make sure that I wasn’t unfairly judging her for my frustrations, “If she’s calling to talk me specifically about “trisomie” shouldn’t she know what it is in English?” At this point, I thought that I’d save my money and just bury my head for about the next 5 months untilit was time to starting pushing, taking the cue to climb into the bathtub with a bottle of whiskey and a nailfile, chanting “I sink I can, I sink I can,” like The Little Engine Zat Could. Jaded, anyone?

She instructed me to come to the office (1 hour on the bus there, and 1 hour back) just to pick up the prescription for another echographie. “Can you fax it to me?” I asked. In fact, the prescription hadn’t been filled out as of that day, Friday. I should take the trip on Tuesday, when it would be ready. Instead of doing this, I hung up with her, scheduling an echographie by phone and planned to pick up the prescription on the same day before my appointment. In the meantime, I had an appointment scheduled for Thursday of the coming week, to see The Doctor (originally scheduled to ask questions/relay concerns, review the initial results of my echographie, that were now thought to be obsolete after the phone call from the assistant). I kept the appointment anyway, so that I could have face time her.  That’s the only way that I knew of to contact her, as alternatives were not given. I’d have to pay the non-reimbursable fees for this time. During this very expensive 20 minutes, I asked her what I could expect in the coming months; a general overview. Instead of giving me any information or advice (read NONE), she told me to read the book “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” I agree that the book is a valuable resource, but some advice from my doctor would be great as well.
On the next Thursday, the day of my ‘consultation’ appointment, at what should have been the rightful end of my two hour wait (everyone else in the room arrived after me), Dr. McGinnis emerged from the office and called in a family of 5 - three very young children. I looked at her questioningly and she told me apologetically that the very pregnant mother needed to have a culture taken at the lab, which was about to close. Still feeling very reasonable and patient, I agreed. I was called in 15 minutes later, and to both of our surprise, I also needed to take a trip to the lab for an additional blood test. My previous blood test, which was to be examined for Down’s Syndrome - was taken too early. The assistant who had called days ago was mistaken. I didn’t need another echographie. I needed a blood test. And now, the lab was closed because McGinnis took someone else ahead of me. I would need to make another trip to the hospital for this 5 minute, drop-in procedure. 1 hour to the hospital. 1 hour back. Had I cancelled my appointment for that chat with The Doctor, I would have had another echographie done. For an additional ~160 euros. For no good reason. And then a blood test. An additional ~60 euros.

I wrote in a previous post that I would continue prenatal care there. That was when I was younger and more clueless by least 2 months, with a shred of optimism. For the purpose of those who found this blog by querying GIVING BIRTH, PREGNANT, ENGLISH SPEAKING, AMERICAN HOSPITAL in PARIS, my experience, has been this (and this includes a bonus rant about the horrible experience with an eye exam at the hospital as well, see post in archives):

1. No information given, even though pregnancy needs to be declared with Securite Sociale by Week 14. You basically need to know everything that you didn’t know you needed to know because your (or my) doctor won’t tell you. You need to obtain the form from your doctor to send in to Securite Sociale.
2. Be prepared to wait for hours each time (in my instances)
3. You’re paying for English speaking care, yet the only person who is regularly accessible to me, is an office assistant who doesn’t speak enough English to relay important information: She didn’t know the general information pertaining to pregnancy either, and it was not an innocent little mistake. ie. She was unable to tell me that trisomie is DOWN’s SYNDROME, yest she called specifically to discuss this. She incorrectly told me that I needed to take a blood test to determine risk for trisomie. In fact, what is needed is an echographie/ultrasound.

Cost of Echographie @ American Hospital: ~160euro. Reimbursement: ~40 euro

Cost of Echographie @ Public Hospital: ~40 euro (approximate). Reimbursement: Unknown to date

Cost of Blood Exam @ American Hospital: ~60 euro (approximate) Reimbursement: Unknown to date

1. BONUS TIP: English speaking eye doctor? Not sure because mine barely talked to me. He didn’t do much of an exam - not even an eye chart. Furthermore, we spent a mere 10 minutes together, a quickie. Knowing that I hadn’t had an exam in two years all he did was examine my depth perception and blew puffs of air in my eyes without any warning. He barely said a word the entire time.

Cost of eye exam @ American Hosptial: 100 euros. Reimbursement: ~17 euros.

Will I be returning to the American Hospital? No. Not for any of their services.

This entry will be updated with costs of American Hospital Services, as well as reimbursements. When possible, I will post comparisons from the public system.

We’ve spent the last couple of months contemplating a September vacation that should normally be accomplished with a click and confirm: a package to a resort type somewhere in Europe. With original month long plans to Burma finally nixed after a warning and guilt trip from OB for hygiene, safety and emergency care concerns, we were at a loss. All of the above are scarce to nonexist in the countries and type of travel that we generally prefer and I’ve already had a mild, yet miserable and frightening porcelain-bowl- hugging bout with food poisoning just weeks ago. Very, very fortunately, it passed quickly in the same day with no major effects aside from spending a couple of hours throwing up. As neat as I was about it (very), it’s scary during pregnancy  and it’s never really classy to throw up in a trash can on rue Vaugirard. Luckily, there weren’t too many people around.

With The Husband sitting next to me silent and uncharacteristically hungover from the previous nights goodbye party for his boss, I asked whether Colombia, Kenya, Tibet or Burma are feasible trips during pregnancy. Even while asking the question, I felt like we must have appeared the ultimate irresponsible parents-to-be. No matter how I rationalized, I knew deep down that these aren’t pregnancy-safe countries.  I had a glimmer of hope, though, Doctor’s words being wise and all. Her answer made me feel a bit ashamed that I even asked; almost as if I’m not ready to be a mother. “Your trip might have to be a little less eventful,” she told us in her crisp British accent, “These are nine precious months; you need to take care of yourself and think of your baby. It needs you.”

It’s a bit of stretch, this vacation that we’re planning. I’m not a resort type, having always planned my travels to developing - or not developing at all - areas. This would’ve been The Husband’s first trip to Burma and I was excited to share my magical world - a special monastery in Mandalay and monks who would bless us and my belly in a ceremony with the entire school of monks and novices. They would give our baby a Burmese name. Take long walks with me through the compound. Sit with me silently, watching the novice monks in saffron robes as they float by in subtle elegance, noses in books, studying their Sanskrit and lessons of Buddhism. We’ve become close over the years, and they’ve performed a ceremony during each of my visits; for safe journeys, good health, new year, prosperous living and other life blessings. It’s been three years since I’ve visited and I’m afraid that one day, in this country where life expectancy is low, they simply won’t be there to greet me when I arriave; robes flying behind them as they hurry down the hill to meet me with uncharacteristally large smiles. I’m missing this second home of mine and I feel a call to be there. Maintaining our long distance relationship prior to my move here monopolized all of my vacation time (not much time and in a new job), steering me toward Paris.

My heart sank a bit when I was told that I need to think of someone else. The thought seeped slow and thick like molasses into my psyche and it dawned on me…Am I ready for that? I had solo travel plans as well to visit friends on assignment in Kenya or Colombia, moving on for train rides and scoping out the land for future visits. Their projects will be completed at the of the year; thus, these are time sensitive travel plans that I had to scratch from the calendar, with third trimester beginning in November and all. Am I ready to give up the whims? Am I ready to plan life around a little somebody whose little life depends on me? It’s Mother? The changes have already begun and I find myself  lamenting the missed opportunities. I’ve never had to be responsible before, and this little bit - this business of missed adventures … it sticks. I want to pack up and be free. My schedule. My time. My impulses. At the same time though, we’re ready and excited for our little family.

I called out to The Husband when he was in the kitchen, taking a much needed break from vacation planning, “Our life is changing, isn’t it?” I was testing the words in my mouth for any signs of bitterness. There was none; just an acknowledgement that we need to restrategize and reprioritize. I’ve come from my own travel interests of wandering aimlessly, to finding my way onto the grounds of refugee camps and areas of resistance to……to resorts or places where my safety and good health must be guaranteed to the extent that we can predict. The problem is that those places don’t generally interest me.  I’ve come from surfing the web for the latest ideas in minimalist travel and little known cultures to research on diapers and strollers. As I teeter back and forth between thoughts of, “I’ll be okay anywhere. I’m healthy and I’ve never been sick during my travels.” to “We better play it safe,” my immediate next thought is, “Am I really ready for this?”

My immediate answer after that, though, is always a resounding, “Yes.” I just have to get accustomed to the idea of compromise.

Voila les enfants de ceux qui nous disent se preparer a faire la paix avec Israel.

Depuis le cessez-le-feu, le Hezbollah a juge utile de tirer quelques roquettes supplementaires sur les positions israeliennes… Provocations evidentes auxquelles Tsahal n’a pas souhaitees riposter. Cette disproportion la, dans le non respect de l’accord donne n’amene que peu de commentaires. Comme si, il etait normal que le Hezbollah continue a tirer quelques Katiouchas…

Les sources du conflit coulent toujours alors, n’en doutons pas, il ressurgira. En attendant, on parle d’y envoyer des soldats francais, ca ne vous rappelle rien? 1983. Le Hezbollah a aussi du sang francais sur les mains. Alors si la France y va, esperons que le mandat donne a nos soldats sera clair et qu’ils pourront ouvrir le feu sans contraintes.

The first and only time that I babysat for the infant daughter of a neighboring family was my first (and only) experience with diapers. She was a happy child, cute dress and all. As her mother explained to me how the cloth diapers pinned at the sides, I gave her only half of my attention. She made it look so.easy; easy like disposables (look). Fold corners. They meet. Pin. Got it. Eye Roll. I was 17 and knew everything.

As I put her to bed later that night, it took me about 15 minutes to figure out why she was wailing at increasing pitches and evolving quickly into various hues of red. It finally occured to me that she needed to be changed. No problem. I tore off the wet cloth and plopped her butt on top of a fresh one.

But the corners wouldn’t meet.
And the pin didn’t magically make the cloth fit snugly around her waist and butt, so I really couldn’t call it a diaper yet.

Finally, I thought to myself, “Well. Good thing she’s laying down. It won’t fall off.” As she continued to wail, I challenged her ability to stay awake by reading very aloud from my history book. The parents came home, soon after, to a crying child ‘wearing’ what looked like piece of cloth casually thrown her. They never called me again, though I saw them often in the neighborhood. That was my first and last experience with actual babysitting.

Fastforward 15 years, different country and this time, my baby. For the last 7 days, I’ve been obsessed with finding an ecological and almost as importantly, stylish and easy way to handle baby poop. OBSESSED by these 3 criteria that are equally important in their own way. I stumbled upon gDiapers while looking for an easier solution to the cloth diaper changing effort. Priced in the approximate range of disposables, gDiapers, has earned the first Cradle to Cradle environmental certification for creating a product and packaging that are truly recylable and safely compostable. As opposed to Cradle to Grave: created, consumed and thrown into a landfill to sit for 200-500 years. Read: Disposable.

gDiapers seem to be all the rage with the Green communities as a revolutionary, unprecedented, biodegradable alternative to disposable that doesn’t bear the same weight of handling effort as cloth diapering does. They call it the hybrid diaper. It’s a three part system consisting of: a super cute cloth cover in 6 different colors won’t need to be washed often if your kid doesn’t have the tendency to explode everywhere, a plastic snap in lining that can usually be wiped (if your kid doesn’t….) , and flushable (flushable!) piece that holds the wet and solid nasties. It’s said to be safe enough to compost - the p’d on pieces, anyway, and I’ve read from a user that it works. For the most part, users have reviewed these as an environmentally guilt free and a great compromise between disposables and cloth (Landfill and all the other evils of production and disposal vs. A lot of water and energy washing the cloth). I’m excited by the concept and will provide a review. Next year. I may use a combination of cloth (with a biodegradable liner from Kushies to filter the nasties, maybe) and gDiapers liners.
I lifted the following from the Diaperaps website.

Top Ten Reasons for choosing Cloth Diapers (or in my particular case, not to use Disposable Diapers, as gDiapers are considered to be a hybrid)

1. Disposable diapers use 2x as much water as cotton diapers.

2. Disposable diapers use 3x as much energy as cotton diapers

3. Disposable diapers generate 60x more solid waste than cotton diapers

4. Disposable diapers use 20x as much raw materials as cotton diapers

5. 1 billion trees per year are destroyed to make disposable diapers, about 4.5 for each baby who uses them

6. It takes between 200-500 years for a disposable diaper to decompose

7. Disposable diapers are the third largest single consumer item in landfills, and represent 30% of all non-biodegradable waste

8. 1 ton of garbage is created for each baby who uses disposable diapers

9. 1 cup of crude oil is used for the plastic in 1 disposable diaper

10. 18 billion disposable diapers are used in the U.S. each year ­ enough to stretch to the moon and back 9 times. (Note that this does not include number for other countries).

………………………………………

I’m really curious…..

Let me know what you think….Is this something you would consider? Why or why not?

The girl in the photo is throwing you a “rah!” because I’m finally joining a gym. That girl is not me, because:

1) I’m not blonde, and;
2) I have never/will never strike that pose.

When I first arrived, many Parisians discouraged me from joining a gym - or a club, as they call it here - stating that they’re very expensive. Why join a gym when you can just walk for exercise?  I’ve discovered that exercise here means something very different than it does in some parts of the States like California.

In comparison to the discounted corporate membership initiation and monthly fees I paid in the US, Paris’ gyms are costly, at approximately 700 euro for one year membership at a gym comparable to the mammoth enterprise that is 24 Hour Fitness. Depending on the locales that you prefer, they are very large, but decent gyms though overcrowded by many people looking far too made up to be there for any reason other than a quick little grab of spandex ass.  The Husband recently discovered that his work offers a fantastic discount that leaves me guilt free for those stretches when I’m burnt out on the cardio machines and vow never to step foot in a gym again, as the cycle has been for the last 12 years. Or when I’m just plain lazy.  The gym and hard physical activity have been a part of all of my life, but since I arrived, the only time I’ve broken a sweat is during the heat wave. And I was sitting motionless.

So I’ve been told by everyone that I should walk everywhere in Paris. And I do, except that even after miles and miles, it doesn’t feel like exercise. And at times, it’s just plain boring.  There’s no sweat or huffing and puffing involved, and I’m not tired enough to take a knee. There’s no struggling with muscles that I didn’t know I had. Because I’ve done nothing particularly active since moving to Paris, I’m feeling sludgey though I know I’m really not so bad. Isn’t psychology and body image a strange thing? (Please note that this isn’t serious enough to prevent me from eating all of my fries AND some of Husbands. Ever.) Furthermore, I know that as my body gets heavier with the baby, I’ll need to be in great shape to carry him/her without straining myself. The birthing process, I also hear, is much easier when in shape, as is the process of bouncing back afterward.

I’m excited to be another step closer to re-incorporating a part of my old life; paying for a gym membership that I’ll never use. Gimme an “H” ! Or an ACHE.