Two months ago my ex and I sat in a small office with a specialist who described to us in excrutiating detail what sort of testing she thought Chickadee needed, and why, and how long it would take.

Oh, and how much it would cost.

My ex put on his best I’m-a-6-figure-earning-indigent face and told the doctor that if the insurance wouldn’t cover it, he couldn’t afford it. I said I would cover it, but the damage had been done–the doctor subsequently refused to even schedule Chickadee’s testing (despite the 3-month lag in getting an appointment) until we got the insurance approval.

I considered breaking all of the ex’s teeth. With my foot. But it seemed more prudent to allow him to handle the insurance stuff, instead.

Two. Months.

He made some phone calls. He gave me updates, when I asked for them. He would call the insurance; call the doctor’s office; call the ped; call the insurance again. Everyone blamed everyone else. He claimed he was working it all out. I tried to let it go and let him handle it.

But it’s been two months, and I’ve had enough. So I made a phone call this morning. Let me say that again: I made A (single) phone call this morning. And half an hour later, I had Chickadee booked for the testing. This month.

I did not yell, or rant, or cry. I did not raise my voice. I did not say, “Look, this has been a particularly difficult week, and I feel like I’m being run over right and left, and I just can’t take any more cases of things being so hard when they should be straightforward.” I did not talk about how this morning was perfectly ordinary but yesterday morning was a Very Bad Morning and Chickadee was inconsolable, and the only difference between the two mornings was… I have no idea.

I didn’t say any of these things, but I’m guessing my voice conveyed just the right amount of DO NOT FUCK WITH THE MOTHER LION WHO NEEDS ONLY ONE MORE PROBLEM TO PUSH HER OVER THE EDGE.

Sometimes, when you want something done properly, you just have to do it yourself. (And be a little unstrung, apparently.)

So I was completely triumphant about this for a while, until I realized that it meant that we’re going to have actual answers (for better or for worse) within about a month. And maybe those answers will be useful and helpful, or maybe they’ll just scare the crap out of all of us and not actually be solvable.

But then I remembered that–either way–it can’t be worse than the uncertainty.

And also that my ex screwed up and I was able to fix it and he KNEW he screwed up. Then I felt cheerful again.