She’s not really a super doctor, like some super hero or something, but her office is pretty super compared to our regular one. And she gives tons and tons of information, citing “the literature” and such. The ultrasound machine is pretty super too, but in the end that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that we went back to the high-risk doc (she had the same old, brown, ski racing, hooded sweatshirt on) and all was well. Nugget was measuring exactly, to the day, as it should be. Nugget was moving all around. Nugget still had four heart chambers, two brain hemispheres, a full spine, all the necessary limbs and appendages, and even got the hiccups for us. Good job Nugget! I was told my heartburn medicine is acceptable, I can play golf if I want, and that there’s still no reason to think what happened “last time,” as they tend to say, should occur again. 
Since I wanted to throw up on the drive over there, it was an extra good appointment. (Minus the 45 minute wait in the lobby with literally three copies of old Popular Mechanics issues and one pamphlet on menopause to read. And no windows. But who’s complaining?).
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