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Pediatrician Expedition

There are many advantages to having a second baby, such as providing a companion for Alpha Child, doubling your mileage on toys and clothing, and knowing that your children will have a basic working knowledge of fisticuffs by the time they enter grammar school. The major downside is that you spend more time at the pediatrician's office.

It takes many years to become a pediatrician. Most of them start a specialized program of study in the second grade, which means that they miss the lessons about learning to tell time. On the punctuality scale these people are only a couple of clicks above building contractors.

The old insider's trick is to snag the first appointment of the day, so you can hit the waiting room with only a couple of patients ahead of you (the last ones from the previous afternoon). Our pediatrician starts at 9:30 am, but that slot is taken for every morning until summerð a decade from now. Being a forward-thinker and crafty to boot, I had booked Stella's one-year checkup the week after she was born, and managed a 10:30; not too shabby. How far could they fall behind in the first hour?

It was a good thing we're on time because it takes about 45 minutes to complete the new set of paperwork, which is identical to all the other sets we've filled out during the past three years. As my kids sample the selection of snot-contaminated toys, I scribble down our personal information yet again.

They need me to write down the billing address and phone number for my insurance company. When I ask the receptionist if she already has the contact information for Blue Shield, she scrunches up her mouth and looks up at the wall to show me that she's thinking, like, really, really hard, before shrugging and asking me to write it down anyway.

Blue Shield, already. You'd think they'd have it on speed-dial. You'd think maybe they'd have a permanently installed pneumatic tube that would shoot the paperwork straight to the Blue Shield office. You could even put your cash on the countertop and the receptionist could pull a lever and the cash would get sucked up the tube and land on someone's desk at Blue Shield.

Better yet, why not have closed-circuit video cameras in all the exam rooms. Every time the doctor makes a billable utterance, such as "Hmmm," he could look over his shoulder at the camera and say, "Didja get that?" Or she could hold the syringe up to the lens and say, "Look, I am giving this child a chicken pox vaccine."

Meanwhile, the person watching at the insurance office would make a notation indicating a liver transplant.

I decide maybe it's better just to write it down again.

When the nurse finally pokes her head into the waiting room to give us the nod, I'm overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, like a hostage with Stockholm Syndrome. She's helping me! She shows us to an exam room, tells me to take off Stella's clothes, and then ditches us, chirping "Wait here, the doctor will be right in to see you." I try to tackle her but she has the angle and easily beats me to the door.

The exam room differs from the waiting room in three basic ways: 1) There are no toys, 2) It is about thirty degrees cooler, and 3) My one-year-old is naked. It's like an ice chest in this place. I think of my groceries, wilting and curdling in the car and wish I'd brought them in with me.

Even though Stella has no way of knowing that she has three shots on tap, the meat locker atmosphere and Emma's shameless voyeurism seem to be getting to her. She falls apart quickly, and by the time the Good Doctor begins the exam, she screams and writhes as if the stethoscope had been heated over a flame. I try to lighten things up with a joke. "She was in a pretty good mood when we got here, a couple of hours agoð" I swear, pediatricians have no sense of humor.

Stella calms down just in time for the shots, which naturally send her back into orbit, and then we're free to go. Our next visit will be when Emma turns four, so I decide to check with the receptionist to make sure we'd scheduled that appointment. I was sure that we did, and I probably even had it written down somewhere. It just seemed easier, since I happened to be talking to the person who makes the appointments, to simply ask. Bad idea. Does she use a computer? No. Can she enter Emma's name and access the scheduling information? No.

When I tell her that Emma's birthday is near the end of March, she gives me The Look. Apparently I have some nerve, asking about an appointment so far off. She doesn't have "the March book," as any idiot could plainly see. Apologetically, I promise to look it up at home and call their office to confirm.

At home I find the appointment card; we are indeed scheduled for the end of March, which means the doctor should be ready to see us sometime during the summer. We have no travel plans, so that should work out fine.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.