cat named pig

Poor Elliot. Another three prescriptions, and another addition to the growing list of disastrous doctor’s appointments on our part.

The good news is he does not have pinkeye. The bad news is he has an ear infection in both ears, a sinus infection, an infection in both eyes from the sinus bacteria (probably from wiping his nose and then rubbing his eyes GROSS AGH YUCK CAN’T THINK ABOUT THAT LALALALA) and a bad enough cough that we need to give him nebulizer treatments four times a day for the next ten days. Plus antibiotics that make his stomach upset, plus eye drops four times a day, also for ten days. Suddenly, the not-having-pinkeye doesn’t seem like such a win, when the symptoms and treatment of what he does have are pretty much the same. Poor little guy.

We went to the doctor yesterday at 5:00. We actually got there a few minutes early, which I thought was going to be good until we walked into the waiting room and realized that the rest of the metro area and their sick kids were also waiting. At 5:20, after a full half-hour of my kids playing with exchanging germs with all the other kids there, we were called back.

Elliot hopped right up on the scale himself, which was cute and definitely the high point of the next hour — everything else was the usual train wreck we tend to experience when I take both kids to these appointments.

As usual (99 times out of 100), Elliot filled his diaper the minute we were shown into the examining room. And I mean filled it. What is it about our doctor’s office? So I waited until the nurse was done with his temperature, basic questions, etc. When she left the room, I changed him (there was no alternative; it had to be dealt with) and the smell filled the tiny little space. It was bad. So bad that the nurse felt compelled to point it out about six times when she came back in (I felt bad about this, and said so, but really there was no alternative — they don’t even have a bathroom with a changing table that I could’ve taken him to, and I wasn’t about to make him sit in it for the hour that we still had to spend there). She even spelled “PU” with letter magnets to distract him right before poking his finger for a blood sample. Seriously.

And then the poked finger bled through the Snoopy Band-aid and left bright red droplets all over the pages of the seven books he managed to touch before I realized he was bleeding. (It’s rather disturbing to see the familiar pages of the beloved bedtime classic Goodnight Moon smeared with a grisly coating of blood. “In the great green room there was a . . . massacre?“)

A plastic horse also looked like it had been the victim of some gruesome attack. After sitting on Elliot in order to apply three new Band-aids, I washed the toys and books off as well as I could and explained what had happened when the nurse came back. She did not seem to care, and I wondered if I should just toss them back in the bucket. I’ve always been grossed out by those doctor’s office toys, but now I am truly repulsed. How many other kids have bled into the toy bin? (I left the toys out, hoping that someone would either clean them more thoroughly or throw them away later.)

Then Siena had to go potty, so we all tromped down the hall to the bathroom, where we entertained the rest of the clinic with some loud counting of the ducks (”guggahs”) on the wall, and some equally loud arguing about the necessity of washing hands. Which we never argue about at home; it always just happens, a natural part of the whole potty process. Why in public, why in a place where people’s jobs revolve around hand-washing, do we have to argue about it? Because that’s how Siena makes sure I’m still paying attention.

Then a hundred years went by, we exhausted all the possibilities for entertainment in the tiny room, wiped a thousand noses and washed our hands a thousand more times without arguing (now that we were out of ear-shot of the nurses’ station) and then the doctor came in.

Elliot was made to gag, had his ears examined (”Pus.” And, “Pus again. This one is bad.”), and was diagnosed with a sinus infection, both in his sinuses and in his eyes.

I threw up and swallowed my vomit, pretended to be someone totally capable of handling such a thing, and waited for them to fill ninety-five prescriptions before bundling everyone up to go home.

By that point, we were all starving. Matt was on his way to meet us to take Siena to Music (they were going to be late, but I hated to make her miss a class because her brother was sick). I was taking deep breaths every time I thought of the eye drops and also worrying about getting home in time to feed Elliot dinner before he fell asleep — it was almost his bedtime. That was when one of the nurses came out with a tray of holiday cookies and little cups of lemonade for all the people waiting. I almost hugged her.

The cookie was so good I decided to pick up a blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way home. (Every once in a while, it just needs to be done.)

And right as we pulled up in front of our house, our friends Andrew and Jana arrived with a plate of Christmas cookies. They are good people. I highly recommend them as friends.

The moral of this story? With enough desserts, we can handle anything. Even eye drops.