Chapped Part III - Patronizing Pediatricians

Three Things That Have Chapped My Parental Ass Recently Part III. Patronizing Pediatricians That Do Not Have Clear Office Guidelines for Must See Symptoms

Cue ran his third low grade fever in a week last Thursday. He didn't have a cold or any other obvious signs of infection. The only other thing I had noticed was that his diapers had been consistently dry, even in the morning. (Have you noticed how much of my day involves my kids' waste output? The joy of parenting.) I called my pediatrician's office to talk to the nurse on call. She said I should bring him in as soon as possible and booked the next available appointment.

I balked like a horse being led into the glue factory. There are few things I dread more than a trip to the clinic with all three children. "He's perfectly happy," I repeated into the phone. "He's eating, he's active. I'd rather not come in unless it's really necessary."
"No, we should see him."
"Okay, but I don't want to get there and look like an idiot. I'm happy to monitor him if you tell me what to watch for."
"No," she said emphatically, "with the symptoms you describe, you need to bring him in today."

I should have asked more questions. I should have been an informed consumer. But, I'm a mom. I'm vulnerable to a health care professional's recommendation that a doctor see my tiny, helpless, unable-to-communicate-in-English child.

Unhappy day. I woke them all up from their naps early and loaded them in the van, a process that, after factoring in various shoe-related traumas, took thirty minutes. Of course, the baby had no fever after his nap and he managed to pee all over the kitchen floor when I changed his dry diaper, so, um, what symptoms again? We waited in the waiting room with the fish tank and the three sad toys and the SARS germs. Finally, the nurse called us back to see the doctor. Our little party of four crammed itself into the claustrophobic examining room.

"Can we have snack?" Yes. (I handed Ess and Gee each a container of fish crackers and cheerios). Please don't spill those on the ... no don't eat those off the ... oh, okay, sure, eat them off the floor. Please don't step on them and grind the mess ... nothing, nothing, carry on.

More waiting.

"Can we color?" Yes. (I handed them their coloring books and crayons). Please don't spill those ... okay, let's pick those up. Please don't step on them and grind them ... arrrggghhh!

Enter doctor. I was on my knees on the floor, picking up crushed crayon. Of course I was.
"Hey there, I see we have all the troops here today." (Troops do not pause in their systematic destruction of the carpet with running commentary.)
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"What's going on?"
"It's the baby. Don't touch that. Do not touch any thing on that table."

I stared, momentarily distracted and awed. My two toddlers had reproduced via spawn balls sprouting from their stomachs like the cute little furry thing in Gremlins and become fifteen toddlers. Oh no! I had forgotten the rules: NEVER wake them up from naps. NEVER let them color after 2 p.m. and NEVER, under any circumstances, let them eat in a doctor's office.

"Um, the baby, he's, um, running a low grade fever - three this week - and he doesn't seem to be peeing much." My non-feverish baby cooed and poked at the doctor's nose.
"Hmmmmm." The doctor vaguely poked the baby back with his middle finger. "How high does the fever get?"

The fifteen gremlin toddlers finished with the carpet and moved on to eating fish crackers and Ebola Zaire germs off of the chairs with their mouths.

"It's low - not over 101. Let's not lick the chairs."
The doctor checked Cue's ears and gagged him with the tongue depressor. Cue's outraged shrieks added to general melee.
"Everything looks good. Babies this age pick up a lot of little colds. No need to panic about every little fever, mom." Then, he chuckled. It was a low, unpleasant, you're an idiot chuckle, trust me on this.

My personalities split wide open and evil Stacey hovered above my head in outrage.
Out loud, I said, "I don't. I'm not. I mean I don't usually panic about fevers. Don't touch that with your tongue, please. It's just I called the nurse and she seemed to think the peeing thing needed to be checked out. Don't put that in your mouth. She made me feel like it was a must see thing."

(Inside my head) Listen, Dr. Chuckles, does it look like I did this for fun? Do you know how much of my day this little outing occupied. It takes me 30 minutes to get them all in the van and down here and we are five minutes from my house right now. I gave up NAPS, Chuckles. I don't do doctor visits with all three kids on a whim. This is not my idea of a rockin'afternoon.)

"Uh, huh, well we don't generally worry about urine output unless it's really excessive or the baby is listless and unresponsive."
Out loud, I said, "Mmmmmm." Because if I had opened my mouth to speak, I might have strangled him with my forked tongue.

(Inside my head, evil Stacey) Um, Chuckles, I am not a freaker-outer. And, I know this for an absolute, verified fact because IT SAYS SO IN THE LOCAL PAPER. I don't panic over childhood sniffles. I have weathered croup sitting on my bathroom floor holding my baby with the shower running. At no point, did the nurse, whom I called without any thought of coming here today, say not to worry until my baby was listless and unresponsive. But, if my baby were listless and unresponsive, I would not be here taking your condescending crapola. Because I am intelligent and educated even and I don't need a doctor to tell me that listless and unresponsive is BAD.

"If you see four consecutive days of fevers above 101, then we start to worry."
"Mmmmm." (Maybe you should inform your nurse of that helpful triaging tip.)

Grrrrr. I specifically called. I said he looked healthy and fine. Did I need Dr. Chuckles to tell me he looked fine with a patronizing 'no need to panic, crazy momma' smile on his face. No, I did not. I really don't understand the point of having a nurse call service if the nurse on call is going to recommend immediate attention, only to have the doctor look at you like you have three heads (or three frightening multiplying toddlers). It seems important to agree on 'must see' symptoms. Otherwise, it wastes all of our time. That's right, Dr. Chuckles, my time is valuable too.

More importantly, even if I was panicky and wasting his time, why did this man feel that it was okay to patronize me and my concerns? Because I am a woman? Not a doctor? A mom? Because I have toddlers coming out of my ears? (That last one might be valid. I have thought on occasion people must think can this woman not figure out how to prevent these babies from coming.) But still, that's my choice. You don't have to live with it, you just have to check out my baby without treating me like an idiot. Why? Because you are a pediatrician. That's what you decided to do with your life. You can't sit in your office and think, why do all these moms concerned about their perfectly healthy children keep showing up in my office the same way I can't sit around and think why do all these toddlers keep asking me for things and acting like I'm their mother? We made our own beds, Dr. Chuckles, and now we must sleep in them. Or not sleep in them much in my case.

The baby is fine. That is the important thing to remember. I would not have wanted anything to be wrong with my precious baby just so that I could look a little less idiotic. Or, even for the satisfaction of getting to tell Dr. Chuckles that he was wrong, regardless of how amazingly satisfying that would be.

I showed him though, I left that cheerio, cracker, crayon mess created by my fifteen gremlin-spawn toddlers on the carpet. HA!