Mommy, M.D.

OK–so I need to catch way up on holidays and birthdays and pictures and such, but that would require actually dumping all the photos off my camera and organizing them. Ugh!

So, instead, I decided to blog a little about my trip to the doc with Spencer on Friday.

I’ll start by saying I love my pediatrician and his office. I mean, almost psychotically, love him. I told him I’d follow him to Kansas. And I really meant it.

But, really, why do I need my doc for ear infections? I know ear infections. I do.

Thursday afternoon/evening Spencer started complaining of a hurting ear. A little ibuprofen and he was feeling fine in 15 minutes. He was up for a bit through the night, but overall felt OK with the ibuprofen.

Friday morning, I sent him to school. I mean:
1. I knew he wasn’t contagious.
2. I knew he would feel fine with some ibuprofen.
3. I knew if we sat home, he would feel fine and just run around and play anyway.
4. I knew if I kept him home, I’d have to also keep Seth home; because, that’s just what I do since they are in the same class. Too much trauma and hassle of “Why can he go to school and I can’t?” “Why does he have to stay home and I can’t?”
5. I knew #3 would then be doubled.
6. I knew I could time the ibuprofen dosages with his getting out of school.
7. And I had a ton of stuff to do on Friday.

OK. So, I picked him up and we went to the pediatrician’s office at 3. Now, this was no small task, either. I actually had Chris leave work early and meet me at home to watch Seth and Susanna (I checked her out early) because going with all 3 to the ped’s office is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

We had to see another doc because My Favorite Pediatrician doesn’t work Friday afternoons. That’s OK.

The nurse takes us back.

“OK. What seems to be the problem?”

I wanted to say, “Ear infection left ear. Amoxicillin—1 teaspoon, 3 times/day for 10 days.” Oh, and here’s your $25.00 co-pay, thank you very much.

Instead I say, “He’s complaining of his left ear hurting.”

Barrage of questions follows:
“When did it start hurting? Any fever? Any coughing? What kind of cough: a dry, hacking cough or a wet, productive cough? Appetite? Is he playful? Does he have a fondness for Dora? Could he pick a criminal out of a line-up? Is his favorite color fuscia?”

I say, “Yes. No. I don’t know. Tuesday. Wet, productive. No, celadon.”

She says, “OK. Let’s walk down the hall and get your weight.”

For real? He’s like 36 pounds, give or take.

Back in the exam room. “OK. Put on this large T-shirt and the doctor will be right with you.”

As he wiggles out of every piece of clothing to change into the large shirt, I’m thinking, the doctor better at least whip out the stethoscope for all this production. Something.

Here comes the doctor. “Hi! How are we today? Spencer, what’s wrong?”

Again, I’m thinking. Ear infection. Left ear. Amoxicillin.

“My ear hurts.”

Now. I know you are shocked and surprised to hear that—despite Ms. Nurse Every Question’s interrogation and subsequent recording of my answers—the doc starts asking me many of the same questions. “When did you notice? Fever? Can he multiply and divide fractions?”

“Well, let’s just take a look.” The doc pulls out the little ear thingey.

He looks. A few “uh-hmms.” Other ear. “Uh-hmm.”

“OK. Well that left ear is—”

Oh, wait. Let me guess. An ear infection?

“Infected. The right ear looks fine.”

The doc sits down and starts typing his diagnosis. “OK. We’ll give you some amoxicillin. You’ll give that—”

“Oh. Oh. I know,” I’m raising my hand like an eager nerd in chemistry class. “One teaspoon three times a day for ten days.”


But then as I think we are in the home-stretch, this doc throws me a curve ball. He says he’s giving us an ear drop. Hmmmm. Trying to catch me off-guard? Trying to spice up an otherwise boring Friday afternoon? A steroid/antibiotic ear drop. I didn’t see that one coming.

“Alright,” the doc says and stands to leave. “Spencer, hope you’ll feel better soon. Oh, and for the pain, you can—”

“Continue with the ibuprofen,” I finish his sentence.

He leaves, and I’m a little hacked he didn’t listen to one beat of the heart, didn’t touch the tummy, didn’t test a reflex.

“OK, Spencer. Let’s get dressed.”

“No. I want to wear this shirt home!”

I then explain to my son that this shirt does not belong to him and must be left for other boys and girls. He finally relents.

We leave wearing our own clothes, pocketing a handful of Cars stickers, and clutching a receipt for our $25.00, thank you very much.

Oh, yea. And we came home with a prescription for amoxicillin, too.