Don’t read this if you’re a positive optimistic person

I hate everyone right now. Everyone, but especially positive optimistic people whose lives are so inspirationally wonderful that they have to gush about it on social media. People who have friends that aren’t speech therapists, whose kids have playdates more than once a month. People who don’t need more than one hand to count how many surgeries and/or hospitalizations their toddler has had. People who don’t carry a medical summary and pulse oximeter in their diaper bag.

Today was a horrible day in a horrible week in a horrible month that isn’t over.

I swear that Monkey’s appointments (doctors, therapy) actually multiply when I’m not looking. I’m not sure whether they breed with each other or reproduce asexually. This week features back-to-back specialist appointments at the out-of-town hospital(s), which means lots of driving for me and also means that Monkey will nap in the car, irreparably messing up his nap schedule and depriving me of anything resembling time to myself for that day.

This wouldn’t even be that bad, except the specialist we saw today wasn’t his actual doctor (too booked up for short notice appointment) but an underling NP who explained to me why we shouldn’t do the surgery requested by another specialist and by his pediatrician, but we might as well go ahead and schedule it anyway, and yeah they might do it, but just so I know it probably really won’t do anything and he doesn’t know if it’s a good idea and we’ll see what the doctor says in a couple days when he talks to her and in the meantime, here’s another specialist appointment for us to go to (pulmonary), oh but he couldn’t get an appointment with the pulmonologist Monkey’s been seeing for over a year so he made an appointment with somebody we’ve never met, whose opinion will nevertheless magically shed light on this whole situation. Or not.

I plan on canceling the appointment with the unknown pulmonologist, but I’m going to speak with Monkey’s regular doctor from the referring office first. The nurse who told me about the appointment was fortunate that I am generally a mild mannered person (some customer representative somewhere is laughing right now, but I did say generally).

Meanwhile, I also found out today that some important paperwork that had been faxed from one doctor to another never made it to the second doctor, so I have to go pick up the paperwork and hand-deliver it to the hospital.

I’m not sure why doctors’ offices even go through the charade of faxing things, because 90% of the time it doesn’t go through and has to be re-faxed or delivered some other way. I guess they keep doing it so that I can have the fun of calling to find out if the fax went through and being transferred to three different people’s voicemails, leaving messages on all of them and thus being remembered by even more people as “that crazy lady who left an irrelevant message on my voicemail.”

I won’t go into the fact that Monkey barely slept at all last night or that he was particularly miserable for most of the day. I won’t mention my conversation with his medical social worker, other than to say that I think I avoided crying while on the phone with her. I won’t go into how it feels to come home from endless medical tests and pre-op appointments and therapies and see pictures on Facebook of friends whose children are having playdates with their other friends’ better, healthier children (I hate them. I hate them all.) who have lots of free time not taken up by SLPs and ENTs and radiologists and anesthesiologists.

Poor Monkey. It’s not fair to him. He’s actually an awesome person (I say this in spite of being his mother, ie. the person who sees him at his worst) and he doesn’t deserve all the challenges that have been dumped on him.

Of course, the children in Aleppo don’t deserve to have their homes destroyed and their relatives killed and be trapped without food or water or medicine. Deserving has nothing to do with it.

The most positive thought I could summon up on the drive home was “If we get into a nuclear war with Russia and die horrible painful deaths, it won’t really matter whether Monkey had this surgery or not.”

See, even during a rough patch, I know how to keep things in perspective.


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