You know what’s odd? Being a parent. You’re in charge of these little people, entirely responsible for their care. So you feed them and care for them, clean up after them and enjoy them. Teach them if you get a free moment. You know.
And then you get knocked sideways by a health issue, like Ezekiel’s vision problems. You find out your child desperately needs glasses and possibly has a more serious problem like congenital glaucoma. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate, what with all the feeding and cleaning and teaching?
So you take time out of your day (several days, actually) and start the annoying and arduous process of contacting care providers and the back-and-forth-and-forth-and-back baloney of dealing with insurance companies. Things are moving sloooooooowly, even though the optometrist was adamant that Zeke get checked by an ophthalmologist ASAP.
Finally you get a referral (yes!) and you call and make to appointment but they don’t have one until February 5th (NO!). At this moment, the stress of all the phone calls and the tedium and the WORRY over your child coalesce. All of the sudden you are no longer simply Mama, but MAMA BEAR. You are bound and determined to wade through the quagmire of the medical community to get your son the best care and get it now.
Fortunately for you, you stumble upon the magic words. You say “urgent and possibly degenerative.” Bam. Within minutes you receive a phone call, within hour you’re at an appointment. Of course, because you are a mother, you then begin doubting yourself and wondering if the doctor will think you’re nuts because here is your perfectly adorable honey-badger-ish baby boy tearing through all the equipment in the doctor’s office. He clearly has no major problem like the one that has sat like a sour lemon in your stomach for the past 10 days. Will they throw you out on the street for being a wack-a-doodle overprotective mother?
And there is, of course, the moment when the doctor, after examining your unbelievably cooperative toddler looks at you and you gulp. You take a deep breath and ask all the saints in heaven and Jesus himself to help you through whatever comes next.
She smiles and says, “He looks fine.”
There isn’t even a breath between you and the tears that erupt, unwanted and totally unnecessary, from your eyes. Tears of relief and gratitude. Not a lick of embarrassment for the drama that brought you here, just happiness for health and gladness that you don’t have to wait 6 weeks to know.
As you walk out of the office, holding your son’s chubby hand in yours, you know you could have handled anything, any diagnosis at all, for him. But you’re so so glad you don’t have to.