Diagnosis: Pregnancy

I admit: after the appearance of two lines on the pregnancy test and the doctor’s assurances that yes, it was so, that is, at the moment when I was faced with the question of an inevitable collision with free medical care at the district antenatal clinic, I experienced an ambivalent feeling. On the one hand, there is an ingrained distrust of free medicine in our people (I personally have solid reasons not to trust both free and paid, and even our women’s consultation...). On the other hand, professional curiosity. It won. But I warn the reader right away: my courage was based on the fact that, in addition to the regional housing complex, throughout my pregnancy I consulted with one more - real - doctor. So, if someone wants to repeat my experience, take this point into account.

So, for the first time, a pregnant woman enters the office of her local gynecologist with the good news - she is pregnant and intends to give birth to a healthy little one in a few months. But for some reason this fact does not cause not only delight, but even sympathy for the doctor. Okay, c'est la vie - they don't pay him for his delight (by the way, you will hear more than once in the coming months about how small his salary is).

“I’ll see you,” he says with a heavy sigh. - But I won’t register it.

- Why don’t you put this on?

- Well, you didn’t bring your passport with you, did you?

Later I became convinced that this is not such a big difference.

- How do I know that you live at this address?

- Because I told you so. What, am I going to lie?

The doctor, with another sigh, which must mean a high degree of favor, reaches into the barn book. The book turns out to be a list of residents of his site.

- How do I know that you are such and such? he asks.

All I can do is shrug my shoulders and present the journalistic document, which has a photo and name on it.

“But there’s no address here,” the doctor remarks grumpily.

However, he had enough fun and realized that he would not get rid of me so easily. I am determined to register. And he has a grenade in his trench just for people like me: he takes a pile of paper from the table and hands it to me.

- Go copy it and run back.

- What's this?

- Medical card.

- Should I photocopy it?

- What did you think? There are many of you, but one card. So don't delay.

There's nothing you can do about it. I take the folder and leave the clinic into the cold. I'm wondering where there might be a photocopier nearby. Fortunately, I remember the post office and direct my steps there. I stand in line. I'm paying. I say thank you. I push the papers into the swollen folder with my knee and again crawl along the icy concrete, holding on to a fence or a tree, back to the clinic.

I'm going back to the clinic. While the nurse was sorting out and gluing together a map from pieces of paper, the doctor appeared and finally got down to business. I must say that when I had to give testimony to the police in the same question-and-answer mode, the Rovede investigator looked much friendlier than the gynecologist at the antenatal clinic.

“Stop,” the doctor snapped.

- Why?

- Because.

Finally, I get my hands on a pile of papers, the volume of which is not inferior to what I recently photocopied. Mainly referrals for tests and other examinations. I also received a prescription for some medications.

- What is this for? - I ask.

- These are vitamins.

- What, you can’t do without them?

— Do you think it’s possible to endure pregnancy without vitamins?

I must admit, I thought so. But I don't argue.

I'm leaving the clinic. I wonder if those who are given a suspended sentence also check in every two weeks? Like, here I am - I didn’t run away, I’m not doing anything wrong, I didn’t rob a store, I didn’t get syphilis...

Of course, I tried to forget about every two weeks - firstly, I had neither the time, nor the strength, nor the desire to do so.