The Cast is a Shoe

Our Pediatrician called night before last and told me not to send Deanna to school. He was going to call the Orthopedist first thing in the morning and get Deanna in early to get her cast. He said for me to be ready to go by 9:00 a.m.

This man obviously is married. No single man would understand the need to be certain a patient was clear about what "early"meant. And only a married man would recognize the leadtime necessary to get children ready and out the door to make it to an appointment on time.

We dressed and then waited for the call. At 9:30, we finally heard from our Pediatrician's office, telling us that the Orthopedic Group could see Deanna at 11:00 - hardly "first thing". Pediatricians seem to be much more zoned in to family life than some other doctors. Dr. Hannah understood that Deanna needed to go to school (and her Valentine's Party) and was attempting to get her there as quickly as possible. This Orthopedic guy wasn't the slightest bit concerned about her party and seemed to think he had us over a barrel. He was right.

We got there at 10:45, expecting to fill out paperwork and wanting to be prompt so we could move things along and get Deanna you-know-where. If I had any idea at 8:15 that her appointment wasn't until 11:00, I would have sent her to school in the morning and picked her up in time to get to the doctor's. Third grade is tough, and even an hour missed results in huge amounts of make-up work.

Thank the Lord I had the good sense to grab a lunchbox for Daelyn on the way out the door and throw some crackers, a Twistables, a couple of Valentine cookies, a baggie of popcorn and his milk sipper in it. Deanna had her lunch in her backpack if it got too late, and it seemed a good idea to do the same for Daelyn.

So much for being early. We waited an hour and a half for our scheduled appointment (see my Pet Peeve, #5 ). I finally pulled out the kid's lunches and let them eat. When the nurse came for Deanna, we began wheeling her back in a wheelchair and the nurse turned into a Treatment Room.

"Aren't you taking her to the cast room," I asked, impatiently, trying to move this show along.

"The doctor's looking at her X-rays now. He'll be in here to talk with you in a minute."

The doctor walked (I'm using this term out of politeness - flew in like a speeding bullet would really be more accurate) through the door in a few minutes. Of course, by that time, Daelyn had managed to entirely cover the treatment table in tiny sugar cookie crumbs with red sprinkles. The doctor didn't sit down (maybe he was concerned Daelyn had left some other surprise on the rolling stool); he just stood in front of Deanna.

"What'd you do?" he asked briskly. Deanna explained. He grabbed her foot, poked a spot on the outside and said, "Is that where it hurts?"

Deanna yelped and hollered, "YES!!"

"That's because that's where the break is," he responded. IF YOU KNOW WHERE THE BREAK IS, WHY ARE YOU POKING IT, I wanted to scream at him as that protective mothering thing raised it's head.

"The nurse will be in here in a minute to put a funny shoe on it for you," he said, and walked out of the room. I stood, my mouth agape, trying to take in the 20-second diagnosis and treatment.

I sputtered. "But, but, but ... I have questions." It was too late. He was already gone. The nurse, also very brisk, put a shoe on Deanna's foot, clipped the ends of the velcro tabs, handed me a form to sign for insurance (all in about 40-seconds flat), and said, "He'll be back in a minute." Then out she went. I dampened a paper towel and began cleaning off the treatment table. Work helps me think. I glanced over at Deanna who sat, dazed.

"Mama, what does this mean?" she asked. "Are they going to put my cast on over this shoe?"

While I was carefully considering my response, the door flung open again and in breezed the doctor.

"Okay, any questions? Does she need pain medication?"

"Yeah, I have questions. You're not going to cast it? Is she supposed to walk on it? We have reservations for skiing in 10 days - can she ski?"

Deanna and I both clearly remember his responses. "Cancel the ski trip", "I'm giving her Tylenol with Codeine - don't use it if you don't need it", "I WANT her to walk on it" and "She NEEDS to go to school". He did give us a few more answers but, all-in-all, we were in the room for about 7 minutes from the moment he first tore in until we walked back out - after waiting for 1 1/2 hours.

On the way home in the van, Deanna said, "Mama, we could make a plush doll of that doctor."

"What do you mean, honey? A plush doll?"

"Well, you know how you can make plush dolls to say two different phrases? His doll would say "I WANT her to walk on it" and "She NEEDS to go to school".

I wonder if we could sell him one at our re-check in 3 weeks? Just think how effective a tool that would be. He wouldn't even need to actually come in the room. He could just lay the plush doll on the treatment table and let it do the talking for him.

At least we got a good laugh out of our 7 minute appointment.