I can’t go into all the messy, nasty, painful details because he’s not going to love that I am writing about him in the first place. However, this has been a part of our lives for so long it had to make it to the blog.

This week he will go for an MRI so the doctor knows exactly what he’s dealing with. The operation is next week, we hope. I’m used to the drill by this point. He’ll go to the hospital in the morning. They will give him anesthesia. They will operate for an hour or so. He will spend an hour in recovery. Then I will take him home with a prescription for something that, if we sold them pill by pill, could probably pay for his entire surgery. The same pills that, once he takes them, will stop up his works so he has to take all sorts of laxatives and fiber to reverse the damage. The same pills that, after only taking them for a week the last time, gave him the jitters, kept him awake, and made him feel like crap because his body was already addicted to them. Thank goodness he lives in Organic Land, where his crazy wife tells him not to fall under the spell of the evil Western pharmaceutical companies. But I digress.

Since this process started six months ago, I’ve seen a lot of good, a lot of bad when it comes to modern medicine. The prices for one thing. The bill was the best part. The first operation cost $7,167. JUST for the hospital. NOT counting the doctor’s fees. It cost $992 for the 45 minutes he was in recovery! Except we have insurance, so after the insurance write-offs, the entire operation cost us $1,804. Only. And if we didn’t have that insurance? Take that operation and times it by four. Then add the other $2,500 per operation for the doctor. We’d owe almost $50,000. People, I know everyone is against healthcare reform, but there’s something wrong with that picture.

Back to the medicine. I’ve already covered the aftercare — pain killers that hook you in so quickly you can end up with another problem before you recover from what ails you. And the surgery? Eh. The anesthesia sort of sucks. The first time was fine. The second time they gave my husband too much medication and he was outright sick when he woke up. He was in recovery so long I started getting nervous and demanding to see the doctor. Ooops, we gave him too much, was the answer. Sorry. Or how about the operations? Three times was not a charm. Each time the operation that was supposed to work didn’t. Each time the doctor let my husband make the decision for the less invasive fix even though the more invasive one definitely would have worked the first go-around.

The doctor, all doctors, don’t really DO very much anymore except cut, which leads me to another  aspect of his care — everyone’s care, really — that really pisses me off: The treating the problem without looking at the big picture. Take my husband’s diet. Sure, he eats the organic stuff in our house. But he doesn’t eat any whole grains, no veggies, no dairy other than pizza cheese. No fruit other than orange juice. His food groups are beef (meat sauce), pizza, peanut butter and toast, and Joe’s Os. I am not exaggerating. After the first operation I told the doctor this, and asked if changing diet could help my husband heal. I was hoping he would tell my green-phobic husband to take better care of himself. The doctor didn’t want to give that advice, though. Sure, he said, he should eat good food, but he stopped short of telling my husband to take better care of himself. Just, “Here’s the pain medication. He’s going to need it.”

And that kind of half-assed care can be found all over America and the world. How about one  375-pound guy I know who keeps hurting his knees? His cure to date: surgery and physical therapy. No one has the guts to tell him that his knees wouldn’t get screwed up so much if he lost 200 pounds. Or the diabetic I know who can’t get her wounds to heal, but no one tells her to stop eating so much crap. Or the friend’s kid with ADHD who pounds caffeine and preservatives, watches tons of TV, and never goes to bed? Sure, he would benefit from an organic, all natural diet, and a 7 p.m. bedtime. But the doctors are too afraid to ask the parents to make such a difficult choice. Diet and lifestyle aren’t even on the table. Here, take some Ritalin. Yes, I know that healthy people who never smoke and eat raw foods often drop dead of a heart attack, stroke, cancer, or worse when they are still young. It happens. All the time, actually. But you can’t tell me that what we eat and how we live doesn’t have an affect on how we feel.

[The above language is judgmental and, although I believe doctors are not doing a good job of taking care of people rather than focusing on the problem at hand, I know my husband's problem is not because he won't eat his broccoli. I am just really upset that we are still dealing with this annoying, painful problem that is messing with all our heads.]

Getting back to my hubby: I yelled at him tonight as he was peanut buttering two slices of organic bread. After eating six English muffin pizzas. Where’s your fruits? Where’s your vegetables? He yelled back that he ate all the organic crap in the house, and he did eat healthy. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m wrong. At this point, I just want my husband to feel better. But when he does I’m hoping he’s willing to see a nutritionist. It can’t hurt, right?

My husband’s rebuttal: The doctor wanted to do the invasive surgery first. Your husband opted for the less invasive options first so he had less of a chance of PERMANENT INCONTINENCE at 36 years old. You are complaining about cutting but the other “surgeries” were to *avoid* cutting. They were surgical procedures to manipulate the area into healing on its own.

I don’t eat candy, I rarely drink soda, I don’t eat cakes or pastries or ice cream. I don’t eat anything with high fructose corn syrup in it, or hydrogenated oils. I don’t eat enough green vegetables. Oh well. I’m 6 feet tall and have spent almost my entire life under 180 pounds. My blood pressure is 120 over 80 and my bloodwork is always perfect. Clearly, my awful eating habits and unhealthy lifestyle are to blame. And of course my evil doctor with all his right-wing conservative “medical degrees” is the problem. Could never be that I just wound up with a difficult to treat condition out of bad luck.

Another healthy baby delivered by a midwife.

“I wish you would go to a real doctor.” We were standing in the kitchen. My mom had only found out I was pregnant a few days prior, and she was already haranguing me about my choices.

When I had Big Girl, I had a midwife. I also had a mental block, and an 8 pound, 5 ounce baby with a giant head. So while my labor was pain-free, my birth experience was not what anyone would wish for. I was sore and bruised for weeks. I was anemic after tearing and losing quite a bit of blood. I looked like hell. I know my mother, remembering what I had gone through, was blaming my midwife.

This time, she had more to worry about. I had a midwife—someone new– but I also had a high risk pregnancy, and my mother was afraid that I would literally die because a doctor wouldn’t be the one catching the baby. She didn’t understand that my midwife, who I absolutely adore, was working hand-in-hand with several doctors the entire time making sure I had the best care possible. In fact, she made my pregnancy, labor, and delivery even better than it could have been if a doctor delivered Little Girl.

My midwife let me deliver at 41 weeks. Big Girl was a 41-weeker, too, so while she carefully monitoring me and the baby, she was prepared to let my body do what it was supposed to do. (Although I must admit that she told me on Friday, the day before I delivered, that if I wasn’t in labor by Monday she was going to induce.) Meanwhile, my high-risk specialist had been pushing for induction at 37 weeks. To this day I truly believe that my midwife’s simple trust in me and the process helped me avoid a C-section and a small baby since Little Girl was only 7 pounds, 3 ounces when she was born. She also fought to get me into a birthing room, and helped me have a delivery that I look back on with nothing but pride.

Still, my mom, like most other people, didn’t know what a midwife does—or even what a midwife actually is. If she had maybe she would have been a little more confident about my choices.

Do you know what a midwife does? Here are five facts that I wish everyone knew about midwifery.

1) A certified midwife (CNM) goes through a rigorous training program, which includes a hands-on internship.

A CNM is an advanced practice nurse. She must first attain a nursing license, which is a B.A. or a B.S. in nursing, and then undergo what is essentially a master’s program in midwifery. Once she completes the program, she must take a national certifying examination administered by the American Midwifery Certification Board (AMCB) to become a CNM. The program is unique because CNM candidates spend time interning—much like a doctor would—with other CNMs.

2) Midwives can—and do—spend more time with their patients.

“We do what doctors can’t,” says Jane Crawford Peterson, CPM/LM, who runs a midwifery practice called In the Beginning based in Iola, Wis. “We spend long periods of time at prenatal visits, which means we can hold a woman’s entire story. Our prenatal visits are often scheduled for an hour, so we talk not only about how the baby is doing, but what the woman does throughout the day. We can understand her goals for her birth. It’s not just about taking blood pressure. Clinical signs can be ascertained in 15 minutes. We’re focusing on more than just physical health.”

I know one of the things I loved about having a midwife was—unlike my friends who labored with a random labor nurse they had just met—she was prepared to stay with me the entire time I was in labor. I like to be alone during labor, so she went off to sleep for a bit, but she was the one who checked my progress. And she was there the entire time I was pushing. She was also the one who delivered my baby. Plus I knew there wouldn’t be any bait and switch nonsense going on. The person who gave me my prenatal care was the person who delivered my babies, unlike many of my friends who had to take whichever doctor happened to be on call when they went into labor.

3) Midwives have a lower rate of Cesarean sections.

It may be because doctors don’t think C-sections are a big deal—a recent study found that “sixty-five percent of midwives considered the rates of cesarean section in their hospitals to be too high compared with 34 percent of obstetricians.”  Or maybe it’s because doctors induce labor far more often than midwives, or that they are more likely to prescribe epidurals. Whatever the reason, fewer women cared for by midwives have C-sections.

4) Midwives respect and work with doctors—and most doctors respect them, too.

“I have 18 physicians who I routinely consult with. I stand firmly in liking the fact that I hold hands with physicians so that smooth transitions can occur in the event that something unexpected pops up during the pregnancy or birth,” says Crawford Peterson. (And as crunchy-granola as I am, I wouldn’t work with a midwife who didn’t have this type of arrangement.)

5) Midwives can do everything a doctor can except prescribing medicine and ultrasounds and doing operations.

When I ripped giving birth to my first, my midwife was the one who sutured me up. She was there for all my prenatal exams. She looked at my lab work. She did my postpartum followups. I felt taken care of, respected, and heard. It was a wonderful thing. Plus, since she works directly with a group of wonderful doctors I knew that, in the event of an emergency, I was in great hands no matter what.

It is for these reasons that I would tell anyone: No, midwives aren’t doctors. Sometimes they’re better than doctors! Maybe you should give one a try?