CYA

Working at my job, I've learned a number of new phrases and acronyms. The first is the revealing "To be thrown under the bus." The second, the far more practical CYA, or "Cover Your Ass."

It should come as no surprise that CYA has applications far beyond the confines of television production. Professionals the world over, doctors chief among them, employ, nay embrace, CYA.

Case in point - several weeks ago, we found out that She-Blob is on the small side. Still within the bounds of "normal," but in a statistics-obsessed world, her percentiles weren't all that they could be. A litany of measurements, weigh-ins and sonograms ensued. Tape measures were brought out, fetal heart monitors were attached, specialists were consulted, bed rest was prescribed.

And though the entire time everyone reassured us that "Everything is more than likely fine," I found myself going to 2 appointments per week, being educated in the worst case scenario for everything that could possibly be wrong. The fact that I felt completely fine and She-Blob was doing her kickingest, was squarely ignored.

I dutifully attended all the appointments, sat patiently as a variety of machines reconfirmed time and time again that all was good in She-Blob world. It all came to a logic-defying pinnacle this week.

With my regular OB on vacation, I was seen by another doctor in the practice, one unfamiliar with the series of events that had brought me there. Looking at yet another round of good test results and my chart he asked incredulously, "So why are you here?"

"A good question," I thought. "Probably because no one wants to be responsible for telling me I no longer need to do this." Instead I explained the history of my "complications." "But you KNOW you're actually fine?" he asked. And I saw my ray of hope - perhaps this would be the end of my OB Office Penance. But no such luck - I was directed to make yet another appointment and go to the specialist for yet another sonogram.

That was today. The visit was going well - She-Blob had grown (apparently her only requirement) skyrocketing from the meager 15th percentile to the respectable (in my opinion) 30th. She's moving, she's kicking, her heart is clearly beating. All good signs. The doctor was impressed. "This is great," she said.

"So now what?" I asked, hoping for a response of "Well, maybe we'll have you come back one more time in a few weeks..." Instead I got the following explanation:

Just because everything was fine and continued to be fine, didn't mean it couldn't stop being fine at any moment. And the closer I am to my due date and the higher chance She-Blob has of having absolutely no complications, the more tragic it would be should something go wrong. So I should continue going to 2 appointments a week, if for no other reason than to be told that I'm STILL fine. And hopefully all goes well until I reach full term.

So let me apply this "logic" to another condition - No, you aren't having a heart attack. In fact, your heart looks healthier today than it did 2 weeks ago. Most likely, you're really not in any danger of having a heart attack any time soon. But how much more tragic would it be if you were to suddenly, unexpectedly have a heart attack now?! You better keep coming in for cardiograms.

Huh???

Granted, I understand - in today's litigious society, heaven protect the doctor unfortunate enough to have told me that good health actually equaled a reduction in doctors visits and tests. Should something actually go wrong, my wrath and inevitable lawsuit would descend on her faster than you could say "sonogram." CYA must remain in full effect.

But I also suspect there may be another component to the over-cautious doctor/patient relationship. It's called BYI - bill your insurance...