My kid’s sick. Well, we think. On occasion, she’s had a bit of blood in her diaper which was disconcerting, but we were told it was due to an allergy to proteins found in dairy products. So, I gave up ice cream and cheese and everything else I love for a while. There had been no sign of anything wrong for three weeks until this morning. Back to bloody diaper, and, forgive me if this is too much information, but it was a little more than I was comfortable seeing. I called the Doctor immediately- at 6 a.m.. He told me that I needed to take her to see a pediatric gastro-neurologist at the hospital right away in order to identify the cause. Best case scenario, still an allergy. Worst case scenario, ruptured cyst or internal bleeding. Thanks, Doc. Don’t sugar coat it or anything.
If you’ve all been reading, you’re already aware that I dislike going to Doctor. And I absolutely DETEST hospitals. They freak me out. But you’d think I was vying for Dylan tickets the way I was calling for an appointment this morning. The short-tempered receptionist for the Gastro-whatever Doctor that my pediatrician referred informed me that he is booked solid until October. Perfect. Get me another guy, then, please. They’re all booked, says the patient receptionist. Here is where I tried to quell the Mama Bear, but it came roaring out anyway. Like Mama Bear’s often do.
Mama Bear is a term, that if you are unfamiliar with it, you can still picture what it looks like. I believed whole heartedly at one time that I wouldn’t become one. I hate confrontation. I hate being pushy. I hate being abrasive. Rude. In your face. Dangerous, even. Until I gave birth to a little human who’s care is solely my own and my husband’s and have come to find out, that not everyone else in the world thinks she’s as important as I do. So, I must make them.
We have an appointment today at 4:45, thanks to a whole lot of praying and perhaps, a bit of Mama Bear persuasion. Pray with us that nothing’s wrong with our child- and that you never have to see my Mama Bear in action. It’s so menacing I think I may have scared myself more than I did the receptionist. Maybe.