Next Time, I’ll Vote For…

I realize my posting delinquency, especially during the nasty weather, pre-holiday-don’t-want-to-do-any-real-work-at-work time of year, is inexcusable.  I’ll offer up an excuse anyway. 

Three weeks ago, I was blindsided by my child’s first illness.  Coxsackie virus.  (Is it just me, or do the most virulent viruses always have strange, Far-Eastern sounding names?  Too bad no one ever asked one of my Appalachian ancestors to name any germs.  If the doc had told me Judd had the Hellfire Gravelmouth, it would have sounded straightforward, clear, less ominous if not less painful.)   

Coxsackie is a bizzare little bug that causes painful blisters to develop on the hands, feet, and on the inside of the mouth.  It also causes poor digestive reactions to the medicine, lack of sufficient diapers in the house, lack of parental sanity, and, in the final stages, lack of parental hygiene.  At one point, as I stood over my son’s crib, changing stained sheets for the third time in a night, the skin on one of my fingers cracked.  The cause was likely dryness from obsessive-compulsive Purel use, but I found myself actually wondering, since I had not actually washed my hair since before the last emergency pharmacy visit (The old-school glass prescription bottle broke.  Again.), if a quick, full-body Purel shower was possible.  The constant laundering/bathing/swabbing/changing/re-laundering/medicine chase-down/medicine spill clean-up/Tylenol-wearing-off/screaming/waking/not-the-sheets-again cycle had left me spent. 

I looked like Tom Hanks mid-way through Cast Away (sans endearing beach ball, and with worse hair).  My husband had become ill, too, with an intestinal bug, and my house was starting to resemble something out of a PBS bubonic plague docudrama.  I considered resulting to my red phone plan — 1).  load everyone into the car, 2).  wrap the house in plastic, 3).  pour lots of bleach down the chimney, and 4).  come back in a year. 

When I finally had everyone settled into bed again, it hit me — I’ve spent the past several months bombarded by promises of money, vast and glorious dollar amounts the presidential candidates were willing to throw at me for health care. 

But I don’t really want cash.  I want time. 

I don’t mean time added to my lifespan (though I wouldn’t turn it down), I mean time to take a darned shower myself when every square foot around me has been contaminated.

On the day my son was diagnosed, we spent nearly an hour and fifteen minutes waiting to see a doctor.  The waiting room was packed and overflowing, the well-meaning “Sick Child” and “Well Child” sections hopelessly melting into one another.  The Pocohantas DVD was skipping at Chapter One.  At my feet, a child had passed out directly on the linoleum.  His mother’s glazed eyes said that she had not the strength nor the heart to force him upright.  To my right, an infant about my son’s age vomited into a plastic cup.  When I got home later, I’d tell my husband the scene was like some hellish frat party on the Island of the Lost Boys, with Disney blasting in the background instead of DMX.                   

I tried not to lose it.  I zoned out.  I prayed.  I made a wish list.  I decided that the next time we have a Presidential Election, and the next time the candidates decide to make health care an issue, I’ll vote for the guy who arranges the following:

1.  When I go to the doctor, I want to be seen by someone within fifteen minutes.  Doesn’t have to be a doctor.  It can be a nurse, a PA, triage assistant, heck, I’ll even take the receptionist who has four kids of her own.  But somebody.  Anybody.  You see, after fifteen minutes (and even that’s a stretch), it’s very difficult to keep a child still.  He’ll wriggle.  He’ll wander.  He’ll reach for another child’s drool-covered toy or an intriguing Dixie Cup of vomit.  He’ll leave sicker than when he came.  And we’ll be back.   Unless, of course, I’ve picked up something too, and then I’m too sick to bring him back.  In which case…

2.  Housecalls.  Everyone ought to be entitled to one per year.  For when you just can’t do the waiting room.  (Seriously, now that they’re making it possible for women to GIVE BIRTH at home, how hard is it to handle a stomach virus there?)  But when you do have to go… 

3.  A Self-Diagnosis Express Lane.  Nope, not kidding.  You see, I’ve gotten sinus infections, regular as the tide, for fifteen years.  I know what they are.  I know what they do.  I could write out the prescription blank myself, blindfolded.  With all due respect to the medical profession (and I do have tremendous respect for it), I do not need to wait, weigh, wait again, and undergo a complete physical exam every winter when Old Man Snotty rolls around.  Especially not when I know someone else who genuinely needs the full diagnostic treatment is stuck out in the waiting room, vomiting into a cup.  So, I’d like an Express Lane, or better yet, a drive-up window.  A CPN or PA can staff it.  I’ll be happy to sign whatever legal waiver they come up with, confirming that I’m taking a risk with 2-minute diagnosis, and promising to come back if my symptoms get worse.  Then I’ll take my prescription and floor it out of the infect-o-sphere.

4.  And speaking of prescriptions…God bless the few mom-and-pop pharmacies that still do deliveries, but there simply aren’t enough of them.  If there’s one thing I loathe more than a waiting room, it’s having to make an extra trip to a pharmacy to wait on a prescription.  I’d gladly pay a little extra to be able to go on home, curl up on the couch, and wait for a nice fella to drop of my meds and chicken soup.     

5.  A Stupid Question Hotline.  They actually had one of these at the hospital where my son was born.  You could call any time during the first week after you brought your child home, and one of the pediatric nurses would speak to you and tell you whether your child’s problem sounded serious enough to merit a doctor’s attention.  Oh, and it was anonymous, so no worries over laughter in the background if you happened to confuse ”probable internal bleeding” with “gas.”  I miss that hotline.  I wish they had one for all ages, all the time.  Again, I have no idea what it would take to fund something like this, but I’d pay a buck or so a minute for the privilege.  It’s about time, not money (and the total would probably be less than our copay for an office visit, anyway), and I’d occasionally avoid the shame of wasting a doctor’s time, being told to get some Alka-Selzer when I was sure I had appendicitis, and taking time off work for all of the above. 

I know it’s a pipe dream, and I probably sound like a spoiled brat.  But it’s occured to me of late that all sick people are.  No matter how much stress it puts on the caretaker, they recover faster if they get the peace that comes with coddling, attention, and genuine thoughtfulness with regard to their true needs. 

And that can’t be bought.          

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