My hands were trembling with frustration as I waited for them pick up their phone. I must have hit redial 20 times. Is it unreasonable to expect an actual person to speak to me at our pediatrician's office?
I would even settle for their automated phone service to pick up. Dial "1" for English, followed by "2" for a non-emergency, then "4" to leave a message for the nurse.... Then I could at least hope that someone may get my message and actually respond. In desperation, I called their after-hours answering service and was greeted by a surly attendant.
Why do they always have to be surly? I mean, how difficult is it to take messages that you're not even responsible for answering.
I would even settle for their automated phone service to pick up. Dial "1" for English, followed by "2" for a non-emergency, then "4" to leave a message for the nurse.... Then I could at least hope that someone may get my message and actually respond. In desperation, I called their after-hours answering service and was greeted by a surly attendant.
Why do they always have to be surly? I mean, how difficult is it to take messages that you're not even responsible for answering.
She informed me that the doctor's office isn't answering its phone, which I obviously already knew, and took my name and number. A nurse responded within the hour and after a well-rehearsed litany of symptoms and their possible causes, I was told there wasn't much we could do.
That was Friday...
Since then, we've done four full loads of vomit-soaked laundry, disinfected the sofa and the carpets, hand washed all of his toys, purchased the pricey name-brand Pedialyte, canceled the week's play dates, begged my pediatrician mom to make a "house call", and rocked, cuddled, and comforted our scared, sick child.
After years of working at my mom's office and hearing her dispense the same common sense medical advice ad nauseam (so to speak), I swore I would NEVER become one of "those moms". The ones that freak out with every head cold and obsesses over every milestone. Well, guess what? I did.
"Common sense" isn't much comfort when your child looks at you with such sad eyes and you can't kiss it and make it better. Powerless against the germs, I run to his bedside with each stir... or every five minutes, whatever comes first. I make sure his favorite toy is always clean and on hand. I offer him crackers and keep his cup filled with whatever liquid will stay down, but there really isn't anything I can do to make his sore tummy go away...
I can't wait for the spark of his sweet smile to come back. That's when I'll know that it's really all better.
That was Friday...
Since then, we've done four full loads of vomit-soaked laundry, disinfected the sofa and the carpets, hand washed all of his toys, purchased the pricey name-brand Pedialyte, canceled the week's play dates, begged my pediatrician mom to make a "house call", and rocked, cuddled, and comforted our scared, sick child.
After years of working at my mom's office and hearing her dispense the same common sense medical advice ad nauseam (so to speak), I swore I would NEVER become one of "those moms". The ones that freak out with every head cold and obsesses over every milestone. Well, guess what? I did.
"Common sense" isn't much comfort when your child looks at you with such sad eyes and you can't kiss it and make it better. Powerless against the germs, I run to his bedside with each stir... or every five minutes, whatever comes first. I make sure his favorite toy is always clean and on hand. I offer him crackers and keep his cup filled with whatever liquid will stay down, but there really isn't anything I can do to make his sore tummy go away...
I can't wait for the spark of his sweet smile to come back. That's when I'll know that it's really all better.
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