Dr. Socks, the Finale
I had made arrangements to go with Wendy to the knitting store to pick yarn for me to knit her daughter a scarf for Christmas. I had just finished knitting the behemoth blanket. I was very excited to return to my favorite local yarn shop for the first time since having had Sun.
We stepped into the shop, me lugging a sleeping 4-month old Sun in her carrier and Wendy holding Sam’s small hand. As usual, I heard, “Noooola!” The clerk recognizing me said, “Ooooh, you had the baby! Did Dr. Socks deliver her?” and with that she turned her head and pointed. To Dr. Socks. Who was standing in the very spot where I’d met him. Talking to a clerk about needlepoint threads.
Deep inside, I screamed. On the outside, I answered the clerk with an icy, loud, firm, “No.” I then turned to Wendy and said under my breath, “That’s him. That’s HIM. THAT’S HIM.” The blood was beating so loudly in my ears I couldn’t hear anything or concentrate on anything. Except him. I couldn’t stop looking at him. Waiting. Waiting for the right words to come to me. Waiting for him to see me. Waiting for him to see Sun. Waiting for him to realize he had been wrong. Waiting for him to speak to me. Waiting for him to apologize.
He gave me the quickest of glances and returned to his work. Looking back, he focused an awful lot of attention on his work. He did see me, although I couldn’t tell if he’d recognized me. But then I thought, of course he recognized me! He recognized me in his office after one short meeting of him in this very shop. I’d seen him in his office no less than ten times as his patient. Was he… could he be… surely he wasn’t… IGNORING ME!?!
My mind raced. Do I SAY something? Do I NOT say something? Do I make a scene? Do I embarrass him? Will I embarrass myself? WHAT SHOULD I DO, DAMMIT! What would you have done?
What did I do? With shaky hands, I picked up Sun in her carrier and walked over to the table Socks was working over. I tapped into all the courage I could muster and called to him in a sing-song voice, “Ohh, Dooooctor Soooocks, looky what I have!!” And I rocked the carrier back and forth with a large knowing smile on my face.
He looked up, looking decidedly caught, and meekly said, “Congratulations.” Then he turned his head back down to his work.
That was it.
I didn’t know what more to do. He couldn’t think Sun was adopted; he had to have heard the conversation I had with the clerk (it’s a tiny shop). He had to know, in that moment, that my decision (against his advice) to go to a local fertility specialist had been the right thing to do. I don’t know how much he’s thought of me and my case, professionally speaking. I don’t know if he questions the diagnosis he gave me. I don’t know if he feels badly or guilty or anything at all about his care of me.
I do know that I have thought a lot about him. And the mistake he made.
In the end, I am living happily ever after. And part of doing that requires harboring no ill will. Blogging about him for the past several days forced me to deal with my feelings over the whole debacle. And I can finally say with honesty that I feel no more ill will towards Dr. Socks. I feel nothing for him at all. Plus, I learned that sharing a love of needle arts and 1850’s Victorian British novelists is not a basis for choosing a health care provider.