And Now For The Radiation

In between the end of my chemo, genetic testing, and getting my mediport taken out, I've had to prepare for the next phase of cancer treatment: radiation.

We followed the directions to the door where a big sign said ONCOLOGY,  me out of breath and needing to sit down.  (I try very hard to walk from the car to wherever, but that usually means that I need to rest a moment afterwards.) No one was behind the reception area when we walked in, but there was a sign-in clipboard up front at the desk.  I started to write my name.

"Who are you here to see?" A nicely dressed older man came from nowhere to stand behind the reception desk. 

"The Radiologist," I huffed, still out of breath. I knew that wasn't the right word, but close enough, I thought.  I was concentrating on trying to write my name and stay on the line, which has become very important to me now that I can't feel the tips of my fingers.

"We do not have radiologists here at this clinic," the man said, his tone patronizing. His name tag indicated that he held the lofty title of "Office Coordinator".  "We have radiation oncologists. Is that who you were needing to see?"

I just stared at him like he was an alien, obviously a foreigner on the planet Cancer. Are you talking to a cancer patient like that?  I had just walked into an office with ONCOLOGY on the door, right?  You're lecturing ME?  Really?      

I nodded. 

"Well, that's the wrong sign in for the radiation oncologist.  His sign-in is over there."  He pointed to a clipboard hidden away behind a sign about health insurance cards, where absolutely nobody without x-ray vision would see it.

I just stared at him.  Really? 

I signed the correct clipboard, and moved to the waiting room to sit down.  My husband looked at me, then reached for my hand. 

"I thought for sure that you were going to punch him."

"I wanted to."

We waited quietly, and I thought about how easy it is to treat people you don't know poorly.  I've been guilty of that a time or two.  But this is different.

The way I see it, if the guy was willing to speak to me like he did, then he's likely upset a number of other patients seeking treatment.  Maybe not intentionally. I'll give him the benefit of that.  He's likely hurt little old ladies or elderly men who can't remember as well as they used to because of chemo, dementia, or other issues, I don't know.   That's not important.  What is important is that those scared, frustrated people be treated with respect, not derision, when they get confused and say the wrong word.

I'll be seeing this guy five days a week for six weeks.  He will know better by the time I am done.   

Whooping Cough Blues

I got a phone call from the daycare the other day.

One of those calls.

I hate those calls.

"Zane has a cough," the director said.

I agreed with her. He did have a barky cough. Zane has allergies and my genes, which means that sometimes he has a constant drip of snot down the back of his throat. His behavior was otherwise normal. That says 'not sick' to me. Does that say 'not sick' to you?

"It's really bad," she said. "It could be whooping cough." Translation: come and get your kid now, please.

This area has had several outbreaks of pertussis over the years, so I understood her concerns. A barking cough is nothing to take lightly, if there are other symptoms like a high fever. Zane did not have any of the other symptoms. I knew exactly what the doctor was going to say, but the daycare wasn't going to let him stay. Poop.

I reluctantly got an appointment, then drove the 23.7 miles to get Zane, who had just fallen asleep. I had to wake him up, and then we were on our way to the doctor's office, where we sat down in the waiting room.

At least, I sat down.

I did not sit down for long. Zane was his usual so-not-sick self, ricocheting off walls, running into places where he is not supposed to be, dismantling whatever looked breakable. I played goalie with him until they called his name. They brought us back to the exam room, where Zane promptly began to open doors(don't know why they don't have latches on those cabinet doors!) and climb on things like the baby scale.

Every sick kid is this hyper, right?

The doctor finally came in, before Zane had licked all the tongue depressors. My beloved son was 'hiding' underneath the exam table and would not come out. I had to crawl under there, in the dress I wore to work, and pull him out.

The doctor looked into my son's ears.

He looked at his throat. He listened to his breathing.

Then he put his hand on his chin thoughtfully and looked at me.

"He's got a cough," he said.

"Really?" I replied, probably more sarcastically than was warranted.

"It's going around," the doctor never missed a beat. I am not sure, but I think that he is used to sarcastic parents.

Zane got two stickers for his visit; one from the doctor and the other by flirting with the receptionist on our way out. I got to pay for the visit.

Nobody even offered me a sticker. I'm still bummed about that.

A REAL Stress Test

Zane had a strep test last week when he went to the doctor. Since we didn't think that he had strep, we sort of forgot about it. But we kept getting calls from the lab to call them back for the results. Twice a day, they were calling.

"This is the LAB, we have your son's test results, please call," they said. At first I didn't think too much about it, because I knew that he didn't have strep. But since they KEPT calling, I started to get paranoid about it. What if my son is like me and never has any symptoms of strep? I barely ever even got a fever! What if he's infected his entire class with it because we were bad parents and sent him back to school? I decided that I just couldn't live with the guilt and the possible litigation.

So finally I called. Or rather, I tried to call. "For our Village Drive office, press 1, for our Stone Oak office, press 3, for our..." I pressed a number. "...to talk to Dr. Blah's assistant, press 1...Dr. Yada-Yada’s assistant, Dr. OMG's assistant, press 2. Dr. WTF's assistant, press 3..."

There's at least 10 doctors at this practice and they ALL have assistants, plus a nurse practitioner, plus the billing department, plus the referral department, plus the scheduling department...I started to feel like someone was reading me a Dr. Suess book.

Five minutes later I realize that the machine never said anything about a lab department, so I pressed 0, which you are supposed to do to get to the operator...and the machine said "Goodbye" and cut me off. ACK!!! I called back again, thinking that I had dozed off somewhere and missed the extension for the lab. I had to do it a third time just because I got just past the middle of the message, somewhere near the sixth doctor's assistant, and couldn't recall the beginning of the message and I thought I may have selected the wrong office branch. By now I was a bit peeved; I hate talking on the phone in the first place, but I especially hate talking to a machine.

I FINALLY just hit a random button and then a person FINALLY answered and asked if they could help me. I asked for the lab. They put me on hold and I had to listen to a smarmy woman's voice doing some sort of commercial instead of listening to muzak. I started to nod off again, which is reason #478 why I don't try to use my phone while driving.

At last a person who worked in the lab answered the phone. I explained who I was and what I wanted to know. You want to know what was so goshdarn important that they called us 7 times in the past week? They wanted me to know that the test was negative!!! Really? I sort of lost it a little bit, I am afraid.

I wasn't rude(okay, I was certainly a bit snarky), but I asked the person why they couldn't just tell us that on the machine, since they know it's our phone number, and they know that we know it's our phone number. I told her the truth, that all those phone messages made me think that my child had Ebola, and that wasn't really necessary for anybody's health. The lab person was nice enough to explain that HIPAA was responsible for the phone calls and that they weren't allowed to tell us our test results over the phone. I had taken a deep breath at this point and calmed down a bit, so I could tell her that I understood(which I didn't) and thank you.

See, THAT experience should be the one they use to test your stress for your heart. That treadmill is a cakewalk compared to being a parent.