In the continuing saga of My Oh My What Exactly IS Wrong With This Chickadee Kid, Anyway… a while back one of her doctors sent us to another doctor who sent us to a third doctor. And she told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on, and… oh, wait. That’s a shampoo commercial, not what happened to us with the doctor. My mistake. (But your hair really DOES smell terrific.)
Anyway, we met with this new doctor—we’ll call him Dr. Zebra, for reasons which will make no sense to anyone but me and Chickie, who leaned over to me the moment we left his office that first time and said, “IF YOU BLOG ABOUT HIM YOU MUST CALL HIM DR. ZEBRA”—about a month ago and sat in his office and Talked About The Situation while he took copious notes. I find that all good doctors start out with taking a lot of notes which you never end up getting to see, and I strongly suspect them to be a combination of “Kilroy was here” doodles and phrases like “Holy crap this kid is a medical mess but darned if I have any idea why.” He asked both of us a lot of questions about everything that had happened so far, and her symptoms, and her medications, and then he started asking all of the standard “history” questions, like if her birth was normal and such.
“And what do you do, Mom?” he finally asked, pen poised over his clipboard, while I briefly fantasized about answering “I’m a hooker,” just to see if it would break his easy composure.
(I never actually do that, of course. It turns out that saying “I’m a writer” evinces plenty of interesting reactions, anyway, and I don’t feel quite as dirty. Still dirty, of course, but better than the alternative.)
Predictably, Dr. Zebra asked me what kind of writing I do, and I gave my standard answer about freelancing from home, some magazine work, but mostly blogging, and apparently I was the most interesting person he’d met all day.
“BLOGGING? Really?” Maybe he’s never met a blogger. Or maybe I said “blogging” but he heard “dolphin trainer.” I’m not sure. Regardless, the pen went down and he had a slew of questions for me—none of them, I don’t think, relevant to Chickadee’s condition, unless blogging often leads to offspring autoimmune dysfunction?—including a pointed request for my website address.
I don’t really like to give out my blogs to people in person. I prefer to believe that everyone who reads me lives inside the computer. That’s perfectly normal, right? You shut up.
I sidestepped the first request, and eventually we got back to, you know, discussing the child and her condition, and then we made plans to return to his office for more testing as soon as they could get it scheduled. We were about to head back to the desk to get on the schedule when he asked me, again, for the site address. So I gave him my business card, and promptly forgot about all of that.
Like I said, that was about a month ago. Chickadee and I are spending the whole day at his office today, because today is the day that she has to run through an obstacle course for a rawhide. Wait. No, that’s something we do with Licorice. Frankly I’m not entirely sure what all poor Chickadee is doing today, but I blindly agreed to it because the fact of the matter is that if someone claiming to be a doctor said to me, “If you just bring her back here, we’ll have her balance a ball on her nose and clap for some sardines and that will allow us to finally, definitively diagnose this nightmare once and for all,” I would sign up without so much as a blink. That’s what it’s come to.
So we showed up bright and early and then someone who was NOT Dr. Zebra came out to get Chickadee for her first set of tests, and at first I was surprised, a little, but then I remembered that usually Busy Doctors have underlings to do that sort of thing for them. And Dr. Zebra is clearly very busy—his office is always packed—and again, whatever they need to do, it’s all good. I don’t care who does the tests, or what the tests are, or how much Chickadee screams (kidding! there hasn’t been any screaming) (that I’ve heard), it’s fine with me.
The morning passed fairly quickly, and Chickie was an excellent sport about it all, and then we were released for a lunch break and directed to return at 1:00 for the remainder of the testing. As we were about to leave, Dr. Zebra appeared in the doorway (probably to grab another patient from the waiting room) and he spotted us.
“Hey, how’re you doing?” he asked. I said we were fine, headed out to lunch and would be back, and he said, “Very good, very good. Hey, I haven’t read about myself online, yet!” I laughed and he laughed and we left.
“WHAT THE HECK,” I said, when we got into the car. “I tell your doctor I have a blog and now he’s waiting for a post? THIS IS WHY I NEVER TELL PEOPLE.”
Chickadee couldn’t respond. She was too busy laughing at me.
Hey, Dr. Zebra? Here’s your post. I think you’re swell. Handsome, too. Now stop reading my blog and diagnose my kid, mmmkay? Thanks!