Can I Speak to the Manager Please?

I don’t know what it is about rude receptionists, but no injustice reduces me to tears faster. 

Phone in hand, I pace the kids' play area of the MAC theatre in Belfast. Asher positions himself on one of the elephant-shaped stools at a crafts table and begins to scribble something, probably inspired by the company of lively artwork strewn across the overstimulating walls. 

City centre is the last place I want to be with a pram-hating toddler, but the return time was about to run out for this maternity-clothes-hating mother. Alas, it needed to be a get-these-errands-done-all-at-once-asap kind of morning. 

I stop pacing and press call on the same number I’ve been phoning every single day for weeks. The DOU department. Don’t ask me what that stands for–I don’t know either. We’ve had to reschedule our 19-week anomaly scan twice because of childcare issues and this will be our third attempt at getting both an appointment and a babysitter. 

Since Christmas, my mum has been unable to help out and our friends understandably work very busy schedules. Weeks have passed and the stars have not aligned. And honestly? I just want the dang thing over with. 

But, no one picks up. Again. 

I text Paddy at work. In between doing his actual job, he manages to get through to a receptionist, but she refuses to speak to him because he isn’t me. Makes sense. WHY WON’T SHE PICK UP FOR ME THEN? 

The next time I try, she picks up immediately. Abruptly.

“Hello?!” she bellows, but it is me who clarifies, “umm… is this DOU?”

Because, I mean, I’ve never been a receptionist, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to say who you are when you pick up.

“Yeah…” she replies, as if I’ve just asked her if the sky is blue. 

I apologise profusely and explain our predicament, how I’ve been phoning every day for weeks. Having memorised my friend’s work rota for the month, I am sure we can find an appointment in the next few weeks. 

“Do you realise you didn’t turn up to your first appointment?!” she almost spits, “This scan is supposed to be done at 19 weeks and you will be 22 weeks. This should already be done. You’re already too far on.” 

I think she’s going to stop but she takes a breath and keeps going. “Your husband is going to have to babysit and you’re going to have to come alone. You haven’t been seen by anyone since the start of December and now it’s February. It isn’t good enough.”

In the three seconds of silence that follow, I choose a response like I’m choosing a character in Mario-Kart. Cowardly compliance? Or angry advocacy? 

I choose the latter.

I tell her how actually, we canceled our first appointment but the communication with her department has been so terrible, I’m not surprised it went down as a no show. And actually, I’ve been seen lots of times by the community midwife since December, last week in fact. And as I speak, this baby is karate-chopping my organs, so I’m not concerned on that front. Actually, I’m entitled to come with my husband and if it’s okay with her I’d rather not come alone, as I’ve been a mother long enough, and have watched friends walk through enough difficult pregnancies, to know these things don’t always end with good news. 

I want to tell her I have one single-parent pregnancy and one pandemic-pregnancy under my belt, and for this one appointment, I just really want my husband in the room.

I also want to tell her I’ve had anomaly scans later than 19 weeks before. 28 weeks, in fact. But I decide this information probably won’t help my case for mother of the year. 

So instead I finish with a question, “Is the issue of urgency to do with terminations? Um, because, no matter what we find out at this scan, termination is not an option we will pursue. I’m aware the timing isn’t ideal, but it isn’t a deal breaker either.” 

“No, here’s the issue—it’s supposed to be done at 19 weeks.”

“Okay, well then… I’ll call you back. Thank you.”

I sit down on a green elephant and sob. Convulsing so hard, I choke on my own saliva. Asher looks up from his drawing, terror spreading across his face and through my spluttering I hear myself say I’m sorry. Over and over. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. 

At this point Paddy calls again and in between howls I relay the previous conversation to him. I can’t remember the last time I cried on the phone to him. I can’t remember the last time I cried this hard in front of him, full stop. Two years maybe. Of all the things we’ve been through together, these feral outbursts seem reserved for pregnancy only. 

Paddy says exactly what I know he’ll say. In his calmest, firmest voice, he vows to call the receptionist back and ask for her name, then ask for her manager, or leave a formal complaint through another avenue. 

And as much as I want him to swoop in and rescue me, I won’t let him. Because I don’t think it was solely the difficult phone call that opened my floodgates. It wasn’t the minutiae of scan appointments within the NHS, or even the receptionist’s rude tone. On a different day, such a thing wouldn’t rattle me. 

Maybe, it was her subtle implication that I’m failing at this. Already failing this baby. That I clearly can’t handle this pregnancy on top of everything else. I can’t manage to get a scan, so how on earth will I manage when another set of needs joins our circus. Not good enough, she said. Maybe she came too close to voicing my fear–that three is too many. 

I want to tell her I’m doing my best. That I have very little hands-on support right now. That I can’t collect my eldest from school, make sure the toddler gets a nap, and be at this scan, all at the same time. I can’t help my eldest manage his emotions, deal with toddler tantrums, and be at this scan, all at the same time. I can’t find a counsellor for my eldest, continue to breastfeed the toddler, and grow this baby, all at the same time.

So yes, I want my husband to speak to the manager. I want him to speak to the manager of our family. What are we doing? What were we thinking?

***

A few weeks later I’m in a creaking elevator heading up to the second floor–the DOU department. How I got the appointment doesn’t matter anymore. It only matters that I’m here. And when Paddy finally finds a parking space, he will be here too. 

Just as he emerges through the double doors, locking eyes with me and bypassing reception altogether, my name is called. We are led down a familiar beige hallway into a scanning room and I’m instantly back at Asher’s anomaly scan. The shape of the room. The sonographer’s voice. Her black leggings and New Balance trainers. Everyone’s frustration when the baby wouldn’t cooperate and she couldn’t see what she needed to see. All forgiven now that we know said-baby was Asher, the most forgivable child on earth.

I’ve never had what I call a cliche pregnancy scan. You know–beautiful baby images and emotional parents and a special moment of connection. 

My babies have never been posers–always lying in ridiculous positions, resembling alien blobs. And usually taking it upon themselves to concern health professionals for no good reason other than being awkward. I often look at scan pictures on my friends’ fridges and marvel at how human they look. How baby-like they look. Something I can never be truly sure of with my own until they come out. My pregnancies really are a test of faith in the unseen. 

The sonographer asks if we would like to know the gender (no thank you) and a medicine student arrives to ask if he can observe. Of course, I say, hoping he doesn’t hope to see a particularly baby-looking baby. 

The sonographer turns out the lights and tells us to look at a huge screen on the wall, an upgrade since the last time we were here. Such an expensive piece of kit for us to see a blob, I think. 

But there it is. A baby. The most person-shaped baby I’ve ever seen. A perfectly curved button nose. Puckered lips sucking on a hand for comfort. Gangly legs. And a little leap in protest every time the scanner presses down hard. 

The sonographer completes the necessary checks for the next half hour and everyone in the room oohs and aahs in chorus. I smile the whole time and one delighted tear escapes down my cheek.  

She marvels at how much more she can see because we are further on than usual and when I tell her how stressed the receptionist was about our weeks, she rolls her eyes. 

When she finishes we have a reel of baby photos the length of my body to take home. 

For the fridge, I grin at Paddy, and at the student, who seems to be utterly charmed by this moment he finds himself a part of. The three of us stand there close together, marveling at the pictures and waiting for the sonographer to finish filling in my notes. The room is small but the world feels big. Big with hope, big with joy, big with courage. 

Maybe, three is a big number. Maybe, three children is a whole lot. No, I’m certain three children is a whole lot. But I just saw a miracle on that screen, you know? And I think this miracle is worth every ounce of its big-ness. 

“Do you think you’d recognise her voice?” Paddy smirks on the way out, gesturing to the receptionist on our left. 

“Oh, 100%” I reply, but I’m too busy looking at our baby to care.