Chapter 28: A Visit to Dr. Helpful

Josiah is still a foster child, which means he is on insurance covered by the state- Medicaid.  There are not a lot of doctors that take that insurance in our area due to its "that's all the state is paying for....suck it up" mentality.  Fortunately there is an office that is less than ten minutes away from where we live.  UNfortunately, it is not a pediatrician, just a general practitioner that covers everything from fevers to foot fungus.

Let me just paint a picture for you what the waiting room of the office looks like.  I don't mean to sound discriminatory or elitist or bigoted, but do you know how when you go to the DMV you say to yourself, "Where do these people COME from?  They must only exist here."  Not true- apparently when they're not at the DMV, they're at a government-subsidized healthcare facility- or at family court.  You know what I'm talking about- the woman with one eyebrow and a hairy mole growing out of her lip, the family with 5 children that all seem to be under the age of 3, the guy with the one arm scratching places he shouldn't in public with his claw.  Granted, there are "normal" people there also, but let me just say its a cultural experience, and one that keeps me entertained while I wait for a ridiculous amount of time- even after scheduling my appointment months in advance.  

After an hour and a half, we are finally taken to a examination room.  The doctor comes in after another half an hour, sits down across the room and starts shuffling through paperwork.  He is large and sweaty and bald, and his rotund bottom tests the durability of the small swivel-stool he perches on.  In between scribbling notes on Josiah's chart, clearing his throat about a dozen times, and nodding his head as he writes, he's pushing up his glasses that keep sliding down his nose.  Josiah has had it by then and so have I.  He's walking around the room, a book in each hand, banging the walls and anything else that he thinks will make a fun noise.  I finally decide I should wrangle him once again, so I walk across the room, pick up my 26.6 pound little moose, and sit him on my lap.  The doctor looks up at us for the first time since he came in the room five minutes ago.

He clears his throat again, "So....is he walking yet?"

Seriously?


After answering more politely than I should have, I blurted out a question I had since he wasn't going to be asking if I had any himself.  "So...I'm concerned about how much juice he drinks.  He won't drink just plain water, and I know that juice has a lot of sugar in it.  How much juice should he have in day?"

He looks up, annoyed, like I just distracted him from his "job."  "Ummmmm....no more than a few ounces at a time."

I scrunch my nose and raise an eyebrow.  Ummm...was that an answer?  I quickly nod and smile when I realize I'm making a face.


Finally, I just ask the one question I know he will have an answer to.  I know he has a chart right in front of him.  "What percentile is he for his weight and height?  I'm concerned he's too big.  The boy loves to eat."


He shuffles shuffles shuffles, finds the chart, and pretends to do a little mathematical calculation. "Ummmmm....  he's fine."

Ok...was THAT an answer?  Did I miss it? Like 30th percentile fine or 90th percentile fine?  I tell myself I'll just find a chart online when I get home.


Poor Josiah gets a few shots, and after kissing a few tears away, we bolt out the door.  They tell me to make another appointment for him in three months.  I get that sad feeling I always do when leaving the office thinking, "I wonder if I'll still have him when the time comes for his next appointment."

Oh, government healthcare, I loathe thee.