Chapter Twenty: A Trip to the Pediatrician​​​

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     It began, like so many other crises, with a cry. Loud and forlorn, Jack’s tears were surprising only in that they came in the middle of the Fairly OddParents, my son’s new favorite TV cartoon.

 

     I overheard Jack’s sob while working in the kitchen. Running into our family room, I glanced first at Emily, the culprit in most tales of woe involving her brother. In this case, Emily was sitting well away from Jack and playing with one of her dolls. My daughter looked at me as I ran into the room, shrugging her best “not me” shrug. Unless Emily had greatly improved her acting skills, my daughter was innocent.

 

     My eyes returned to Jack with his hand now pressed against his right ear. I picked him up, hoping to provide some comfort.

 

     “What’s the problem, buddy?  Is your ear bothering you?

 

     As if to point out the stupidity of the question, Jack proceeded to cry even louder. I held him closer and pondered my options.

 

     A traditional emergency room visit would involve a three-hour wait and almost certainly be a clear case of overkill.

 

     Even if that weren’t the case, I would be sitting my children in a room full of people significantly sicker than Jack, some of their conditions communicable. When you considered the likely necessity of taking Emily into a men’s restroom, the E.R. was no real option.

 

     That left Dr. Ted, Jack and Emily’s pediatrician. While bearing a disturbing resemblance to our Amazon delivery man, Dr. Ted had appeared reasonably competent based on the few times I saw him in the past. That impression persisted despite his insistence we call him Dr. Ted, a familiarity I instinctively mistrusted.   

 

     I called Dr. Ted’s office, the first phone entry on the list Alma had posted on our refrigerator before she started working. I explained Jack’s situation to his receptionist, Joann.

 

     “Are you sure your son has an ear infection?”

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     Was I sure?  I thought that was their job.

 

     “I’m sure, Joann. The real question is – how sure are you?”

 

     Joann went silent for a moment, so I pressed my advantage. “Assuming you’re not, I’d like to bring my son in for an appointment with Dr. Ted sometime today. Then, Joann, you can be as certain as I am right now.”

 

     Deciding she no longer wished to speak with me, Joann surrendered and gave me a three-o’clock appointment. It was now ten - that would mean keeping Jack reasonably calm and happy for the next five hours.

 

     I spoke to Emily, now genuinely concerned for her brother, and we made the rest of the afternoon Jack day, filled with his favorite cartoons, stories from his favorite dinosaur book, and even my son’s favorite lunch. Jack’s favorite foods changed weekly, so the latter took several questions to determine.

 

     After confirming this was again spaghetti week, Emily and I managed to serve lunch and keep Jack’s mind off his misfortune. Twenty minutes before our appointment, I bundled Emily and Jack into the minivan, double-checked our insurance card, and set sail for the office of Dr. Ted.

 

     Located in a medical building just minutes from our home, Dr. Ted’s office was on the third floor, a circumstance requiring a trip on the elevator. In our family, such trips inevitably led to a sibling fight over pressing the button. I never understood the battle – we would need to go both up and down – but going second never appealed to either of my children.

 

     To my surprise, Emily let Jack press the third-floor button without a word of protest. Whether due to sympathy for Jack’s illness or the desire to avoid the decibel level of her brother’s inevitable cry, I appreciated the gesture either way.

 

     Once on the correct floor, we walked a short distance down a narrow, brightly lit corridor and arrived at office number three-eighteen, the home away from home for the legendary Dr. Ted.

 

     Upon entering, we came face-to-face with Joann, the receptionist I had spoken to on the phone. A scowling, though otherwise pretty woman seated behind a wooden desk, Joann continued gazing at her computer as we sought to check in. Not wishing to be rude but hoping to draw Joann’s attention, I began with a compliment.

 

     “That’s quite a desk, Joann – looks like you could keep a couple of attack dogs back there if you wanted to.”

 

     Just as I feared my joke might actually be true, Joann looked up at the interlopers now invading her personal space. Her gaze moving from me to Jack, she said,

 

     “You must be the earache.”

 

     Jack turned away from Joann, her statement likely sounding as stupid to him as it did to me. While not aimed in my direction, I decided to respond.

 

     “Actually, his name is Jack. I wanted to call him earache, but his mom thought the other kids might make fun.”

 

     My humor was not working today. Rather than responding, Joann asked for my insurance card. She then attempted to verify our address.

 

     “Are you still at fifty-six forty Carlyle Street?”

 

     “Last I heard, though I would ask you not to repeat that information should any cops show up.”

 

     I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Joann’s scowl somehow deepened. The now even more annoyed receptionist pointed to an open set of chairs, and I took the opportunity to retreat. For all I knew, those dogs hadn’t eaten quite yet.

 

     Two other children and their parents were already seated in Dr. Ted’s waiting room. Both were occupied with Ted’s collection of books, puzzles, tabletop games, and other gizmos meant to distract his patients from their exceedingly long wait times. Emily played one such game while Jack sat close to me, his right hand on his sore ear. I had neglected to bring my laptop, so I amused myself with the latest Highlights magazine.

 

     Since my last visit, Dr. Ted had sprung for the Highlights Holiday collection. Grabbing several, I read and solved puzzles related to Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s Day, and Halloween. While in the middle of the Christmas magazine, I noticed one of my waiting room adult brethren staring at me disapprovingly. Not wishing to cross some invisible line, I returned the Highlights to their original location, doing so slowly to avoid any further consternation. As soon as the magazines hit the stand, a small boy sprang forward to triumphantly claim ownership. I noticed his mother’s disapproving look did not cease. Rather than speak and get into further trouble, I chose to look down at my cell phone.

 

     The other two children were eventually called into the office, leaving Jack as the only patient left. I knew there would still be a wait. As the delay lengthened to forty-five minutes, however, I decided to risk another encounter with receptionist Joann. As I stood and moved forward, I noticed Joann’s hand slide under her desk.

 

     Did she have a panic button? If not, maybe she was reaching for something worse. I couldn’t imagine what that might be – a weapon, perhaps? 

 

     Not wishing to end up writhing in pain on Dr. Ted’s purple carpeting, I remained near my chair and asked my question from across the room.

 

     “Joann, it’s now forty-five minutes past our appointment. Are we sure Dr. Ted is still alive back there?  Perhaps he’s tired and needs a relief pediatrician. Either way, when is my son going to be seen?”

 

     Joann looked at me, her disdain evident. “Your son is Dr. Ted’s next patient.”

 

     I looked around - the waiting room was still empty except for Jack, Emily, and myself. With no other potential patients, her assertion was obvious. I wondered if Joann had a script for these situations. Perhaps she had only four to five allowably replies. What would I hear if I asked to use the bathroom? 

 

     My bathroom reverie was interrupted by Dr. Ted. Almost an hour after our scheduled appointment, we were granted an audience with the man himself.

 

     The couple of times I tagged along on previous appointments, I had been struck by the anomaly that was Dr. Ted.  A short fireplug of a man, he possessed the facial features of someone much younger, as if God had transplanted the head of a seventeen-year-old on the body of a construction worker. Appearance aside, however, the kids liked him, and that was good enough for me.

 

     Jack, Emily, and I walked into the exam room. Jack sat unbidden on Dr. Ted’s examining table, still gingerly holding his ear. Dr. Ted began his examination by questioning his patient.

 

     “So, what’s the problem there, Jack?”

 

     Still holding his ear, Jack stared at Dr. Ted in three-year-old disbelief. I was tempted to sarcasm but decided to bite my tongue. Instead, I tried prompting.

 

     “Tell the doctor about your earache, Jack.”

 

     Jack, always succinct, simply pointed to his ear and said, “it hurts.”

 

     The obvious established, Dr. Ted asked Jack to take off his shirt.

 

     My patience was starting to wear thin. “You realize the problem is with his ear. What’s the point of removing the shirt?”

 

     In what I assume was a voice meant to soothe, Dr. Ted asked, “Doesn’t your wife usually bring the kids?  In any case, I need to check Jack’s vitals. We’ll get to his ear shortly, I promise.”

 

     Dr. Ted spent the next fifteen minutes checking Jack’s heart rate, pulse, breathing, and reflexes. I was half-expecting a request for x-rays, but even Dr. Ted wouldn’t go that far.

 

     Having discovered nothing further out of the ordinary, Dr. Ted finally grabbed his otoscope and moved to Jack’s right ear. Taking a good long look, he said, “You have quite the ear infection there, Jack.”

 

     Not wishing to annoy the doctor holding a sharp, pointed scope, I glanced instead at the diploma hanging in Dr. Ted’s examining room. In part I wanted to make sure he had one, but I was also curious what school gave this man a medical degree.

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     God help me; he graduated from Cornell. I checked for any tell-tale signs of a Photoshop, but Dr. Ted’s diploma appeared genuine. I couldn’t help wondering if the Cornell Dean also called him Dr. Ted as my children’s future physician walked across the stage.

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     Having verified the glaringly obvious, Dr. Ted prescribed antibiotic ear drops. After telling us to return if the pain persisted, Dr. Ted issued what passed for a pediatrician scolding.

 

     “You see, Mr. Lister, I told you we’d take care of Jack’s little problem.”

 

     As I told this story to Alma later, I made sure to add that I did not kill him. Having worked in a hospital, I knew a murder would grant me no assurance of a better physician, not to mention I would have to also kill Joann just to eliminate any unfriendly witnesses.

 

     We only got lost once as we made our way out of Dr. Ted’s office building. After finally reaching the elevator, I was grateful to Emily for allowing Jack the rare two-way privilege of pressing the down-floor button. Either Emily was growing up, or she had forgotten what had occurred earlier. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t have appreciated it more.

 

     Before going home, we stopped at our local drugstore to purchase the prescribed eardrops along with candy bars for Jack and Emily as a reward for their patience. Once home, I located the ear dropper in our medicine cabinet and gave Jack his first dose.

 

     Jack perked up as soon as he received the drops, the power of positive thinking at its pharmacological best. Invigorated by what he saw as a near-death experience, he also had no wish to lie down. Conceding defeat, I handed Jack a full juice cup and let him watch Bugs Bunny once again turn the tables on Elmer Fudd.

 

     When Alma came home that evening, I gave her the full report. After listening, she said, “I like Dr. Ted. He’s always great with the kids, though his office staff can be a little cranky.”

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     Alma, sweet as she was, would have said the same if Dr. Ted’s last name was Bundy. Still, I felt ebullient. I had managed to get the kids home safely, and Jack appeared significantly more comfortable. In my eyes, that made the day a success. That feeling lasted until that night’s dream.

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     My own ear hurting, I arrived at Dr. Ted’s office realizing I was fifteen minutes late. Walking through the large wooden door, I saw a smiling Dr. Ted sitting behind the desk usually occupied by his assistant. Now appearing even younger, I moved closer and noticed Dr. Ted was working on what appeared to be a giant crossword puzzle. Still smiling, he looked up as I moved forward.

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     “What can we do for you, young man.”

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     “I have an ear infection, Dr. Ted. Can you give me some medication?”

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     “Unfortunately, I’m not Dr. Ted anymore. My assistant Joann bought out my practice, and now she sees the patients.”  Calling to the backroom, he yells, “Dr. Joann, can you speak with Mr. Lister?  He says he has an ear infection.”

 

     While happy I didn’t arrive with a more sensitive condition, that feeling ended when the door to the exam room area opened, and there stood Dr. Joann. Dressed all in black, the Johnny Cash of faux doctors, Dr. Joann was clutching what I first assumed was a medical instrument. As she drew closer, I realized my mistake – Dr. Joann was holding a pickax.

 

     Her face exhibiting the same scowl I witnessed on my real visit, Dr. Joann said, “I’d be happy to see Mr. Lister. He and I have always had a good relationship, haven’t we, Mr. Lister?”

 

     She and Dr. Ted both laughed as Dr. Joann swung the pickax back and forth.

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     “Come into my office, Mr. Lister, and my ax and I can clear up that little ear problem in no time.” Taking a closer look at my face, she added, “It also looks like you’re wearing contacts. When we’re done with your ear, maybe we can fix your vision issues as well.”

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     I screamed then and started running from the room. Just as I reached the door, someone grabbed my arm, short-circuiting my exit. I struggled briefly until I heard a familiar voice

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     My eyes opening, I saw Alma, her concern evident.

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     Embarrassed, I asked her, “how loud was I?”

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     “Loud enough to wake me up, but not so loud as to wake the kids. You kept yelling, ‘no ax, no ax.’  I figured the zombie apocalypse had returned.”

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     “Much worse than zombies; I was back in Dr. Ted’s office.”

 

     Alma’s stare changed from concern to dubious - she thought I was putting her on. Having no wish to relive my nightmare, I told her I would explain everything in the morning, an obligation I ducked after Alma woke up fifteen minutes late due to an alarm clock malfunction.

 

     When the kids arose that morning, Jack reported he was feeling better, and my dream became a distant memory.

 

     My respite lasted until later that afternoon as I was making the kids lunch. It started in the middle of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The nuns in grade school had always told us God was crying at our antics. It wasn’t until today I realized he could laugh.

 

     As I swabbed the jelly on the sandwich, my right ear began to throb.