I'll live in a van down by the river if that's what it takes.

I got two letters in the mail last week. Both from my OBGYN office.

One announcing the two! new! amazing! additions to their practice! One fresh out of med school eager to deliver 'da babies, and the other  a "friend of the practice" for years. Oh great, two more people that get to see my girlie bits between now and October. It's fine.

The second letter was not as exclamatory. My doctor, my beloved Dr. who has sliced open my stomach to remove one Alex Joseph Van Wormer, performed the procedure for my sweet tWIPs, and was there to hold my hand in anger and sadness with my bDub, is leaving the practice. In June.

The extreme tragedy is that I totally can't hate him for it, because he's going to some inner city hospital in the hoods of Ohio that treats the underserved and non-insured. And he's going to teach other doctors there how to be as awesome as he is.

But the internal struggle that I have is that I sorta do hate him for it because he's the only person I want holding that scalpel and slicing this child out of me. My scar from Alex is perfect & healed like a dream. He knows my body & what it's been through. I trust him implicitly.

I was able to squeeze in one last appointment with him before he leaves, during which I plan to kick and moan and groan and cry and otherwise act like a 13-year-old girl whose parents won't let her go to the movies past her curfew. Whhhyyyyy meeeeee?

There are 7 other doctors in the practice, and save the new girl (and one other one that should probably never meet me in a dark alley) they're all very competent, trustworthy, good doctors. So I'm sure I'll be fine. However, I do have a plan B to escape to the ghettos of Ohio (not hard to find?), shred my insurance cards and just do what I must. You know, mother's instinct and all that.