There is one project that I still need to work on, and my boss (my younger brother) invited me to be on a conference call that would elucidate some of the tasks that I need to do. I emailed him this morning, saying that I could find a way to be on the call: Spliggle would be taking a nap, and I could persuade the Cat to play with chalk outside to give me some privacy.

Two minutes later, the Cat came up to me holding his right wrist: “Mommy. Mine arm hurts. Mine arm hurts and we have to go to the doctor to make it all better. I want to see egg yolks upstairs and downstairs and then go to the doctor and make mine arm all better.”

My child just asked to go to the doctor?

He had hurt his wrist two Saturdays ago, and then last Sunday, he fell in a bounce-house and another child pounded on it while he was trying to rest it. We had been instructed to bring him in if it still hurt in 5 days, and this was the eleventh day.

I dashed off a second email to my brother telling him that I had to take the Cat to get his wrist X-rayed. I apologized, but asked him to please let me know what went on during the call.

Driving to the Minor Injury Clinic, I learned what “egg yolks upstairs and downstairs” meant: Exit signs. When we had been to the MIC two weeks ago, he had looked at the green exit signs with his dad. He loves arrows. And he loves green. He was eager to see them.

We arrived at the parking garage around 11:30am, just in time for the lunchtime rush. I let in a car that was attempting to cut in an awkward way. Of course that car took the first parking space. Never mind, I found one shortly thereafter, and I stopped and signaled in such a way to give the person backing out plenty of room. As I pulled in, the car behind me honked and the elderly man driver gave me the finger. Apparently he thought it was rude of me to take that parking space. Or perhaps he was angry that I prevented him from driving around me (that would have meant the person backing out would have hit him.)

Surprised, I started to unload the stroller, diaper bag, lunch bag, and my purse. Spliggle was asleep, and I was hoping for a clean transfer into the stroller. But HONK! HONK! I continued to unload the car into the stroller’s pocket. HONK! HONK! I looked up and there was an older woman looking at me with fiery eyes. She gestured towards my stroller. I was so flustered by the honking and that Spliggle was now awake and crying that I didn’t know how to pantomime that I had just parked, so I grabbed Spliggle and held him up as I put him in the stroller to indicate that I was getting everyone out of the car. She rolled her eyes at me, exasperated, and hit the gas hard. Two seconds later, I heard another HONK! HONK! as she was no doubt interregating another person as to their parking or driving intentions.

The check-in at the MIC went fairly smoothly, as did the triage appointment. He carefully articulated that his wrist hurt and pointed to the spot. He did not want to be weighed, though. The Cat was nervous about getting another X-ray, but did fairly well under the circumstances. I had to remain outside the room with Spliggle, so I know he was nervous about being in there without a parent. He kept yelling for Daddy. But the X-ray tech was a friendly young woman who said she had a son his age. She talked trains with the Cat. I was impressed with how quickly the appointment had gone thus far, and how cordial and pleasant the staff had been in dealing with my scared son.

We returned to the MIC to turn in the paperwork that indicated that the digital X-rays had been taken. We sat down. The Cat started racing around, looking at the green arrows on the EXIT signs. “Mine arm is better!” he yelled. “I see the green arrows and mine arm is better. Now we go home!”

He was using his wrist. He was crawling on the floor, bending it upward without pain.

“Does your wrist hurt?”

“No! Mine arm is better!”

“Why did we come here, then?”

“Green arrows! Exit!”

I sighed, begging him to lower his voice and get up off the floor.

A well-dressed lady on a cell phone ran by towards the door.

Meanwhile, one of the patients approached the reception area begging to know how much longer it would be before he would be seen. He had been there 1.75 hours by his count, and needed to return to work in twenty minutes. He was polite but desperate. The receptionist said it was unlikely he would be seen by then. The patient left, dejected.

Last time we were in the MIC, a man had demanded the same thing in a hostile tone. When the receptionist said that another patient was in triage, the man became enraged, yelling at her that she was of no help and that he wanted to see the nurse. After a couple minutes of angry exchange with the polite but firm receptionist, he barged his way into triage, much to the surprise of the nurse and patient she was seeing.

Ironically and sadly for today’s gentleman, there is a good possibility that he would have been seen in his time frame. By the time 20 minutes had passed, everyone who had been before him in the waiting room had come and gone.

The quick service didn’t last long.

At around 12:40, patients were no longer being called into triage or to see the practitioner. The receptionist left her desk. No formal announcement was made, nor was an “away for lunch” sign visible anywhere. The EKG reception across the hallway had shut its metal partition. I saw a sign by the MIC stating the hours were 8am-11pm, 7 days a week, even on holidays. The Occupational Medicine sign read 9am-12:00pm, 1:30pm-5pm. Hmmm. Well, the Occupational Medicine sign had lunch hour specifically noted, but not the MIC.

The cell phone lady walked back into the room, but five minutes later, ran back outside. “Please don’t run!” the Cat called after her, loudly.

A lady in a U.S. Postal Service uniform sat across from me and my boys. There were many seats available in the waiting room, so I was perplexed by her choice. Soon I heard her speaking in hushed tones, slowly enunciating words as though practicing: “I need to see the doctor.” She continued describing her concern, but would pause to say, “No.” and “Uh-huh.” I finally noticed the earpiece; she was on a cell phone.

The Cat started practicing himself: “Mine arm is all better. I want to go home. Mine arm was hurting. And take a picture of mine arm. And see green arrows and now all better!”

I shook my head and asked him again if his arm hurt. Nope. Why are we here? Green arrows. Huh. Should we leave? I touched his wrist and he recoiled.

Still, I worried that the doctors would think I was lying if he came in holding his milk in his right hand as he was that moment, proclaiming that his hand didn’t hurt. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy is that condition where parents make their children ill or instruct their children to act hurt in order to garner attention for themselves by the medical community. I hoped the practitioner wouldn’t suspect I was being dishonest.

After twenty minutes of juggling food, juice and milk, retrieving round crackers that were rolling under the seats, and wiping off the chocolate from the Cat’s face after eating a Balance bar, we played several rounds of “Pat-a-Cake.” Spliggle would exclaim, “Ah-oh! Ah-oh!” while clapping his hands, then would roll his arms saying, “Weeeeeee” while the Cat sang the song.

After ten minutes, the food and drink came out again. We looked at fake plants, at the green arrows again, and the Cat examined the seats. Spliggle ate and threw food, threw food and ate. The Cat threw away our trash, shuttling one piece at a time to the trash can 30 feet from our seats.

The Post Office woman changed her seat to be even closer to us.

At about 1:10, the receptionist came back. A couple minutes later, a new patient was called into triage. Whew! The unannounced lunch was over! I wish we would have known for certain that at least a half hour would pass without anyone going in or out; perhaps we could have gone to the cafeteria without fear that we’d be called in our absence. I was feeling lightheaded and my stomach was rumbling. I had a muddy brain where some sounds were amplified while others were muffled; quick speech and slow speech mixed. I yawned. Surely it wouldn’t be much longer.

At 1:20, the fire alarm went off. White and blue lights. A loudspeaker announcement that a fire was reported on the third floor.

“Aw, it is just a drill,” I heard one weary patient proclaim, shifting in his seat as though he were just going to remain on his bum.

I took the Cat’s good arm and pushed Spliggle’s stroller towards the door. We were the first out. Slowly, people followed reluctantly, accompanied by a security guard. Several minutes later, the staff came outside. Then the doctors. Fifteen minutes later, a straggling physician emerged, eyes rolling.

In junior high, we had a fire “drill” where my teacher told us “Aw, I am sure it is just a drill. We have work to do.” Twenty minutes later, a fireman barged into our classroom, angry that we hadn’t evacuated. An actual fire had been in the building next to us.

The hospital fire drill lasted 27 minutes.

A few minutes later, we were ushered into an examination room. Shortly thereafter, a diminutive woman came in to examine the Cat. She interrupted every other word I spoke with a loud, clipped, “Uh huh. Yes.” I was already flustered and exhausted, so was losing my train of thought as her sharp words punctuated the middle of my sentences.

“I see him moving his wrist!” she accused when I told her where he had indicated the pain.

“Yes, he has mobility,” I admitted, but continued explaining that he had been complaining about it every day for the past eleven days.

“Did you even see him fall?” She asked, annoyed. My fears of being accused of being deceitful grew.

She asked him where the pain was. He pointed to the same spot that he had shown the triage nurse. She pointed to other areas, and he answered, “No,” but then when she touched the trouble-spot, he yelped.

He yelled, “I need a kissie.” I kissed him. “Okay. Now mine arm is all better!”

“He just needed a kiss?” the nurse practitioner snorted, and touched the trouble spot again. The Cat pulled his arm away, crying.

When she went to the other side of the room to look at the X-ray, the Cat walked over to a diagram of an arm and hand pointing downward. Wanting to be helpful, he reached up in an attempt to reach the spot that hurt. He was too short. He pointed at a finger just below the wrist. “Mine arm hurts here!” he said. The nurse practitioner looked over and mocked, “That is a finger. You had said your wrist hurt” and turned back to the X-ray just as he propelled himself on his tippy-toes to reach the exact spot on the wrist where he had indicated soreness multiple times throughout the day.

She compared the earlier X-ray from two Saturdays ago with the one taken that morning. She saw what she called a “little chip” which looked kind of like a bump to me. She kept saying, “But that could be a normal growth variation. He has mobility! He is bending his wrist!” she scoffed.

She examined the Cat’s wrist again, point by point, until he shrieked when she hit the sensitive part. She tsked, and clipped that she would speak to the radiologist.

The verdict was that there could be a tiny fracture across the wrist, culminating in the trouble-spot area that wouldn’t have been visible on the X-ray. As she explained that the Cat would be put in a splint, he walked over to the computer and pointed on the X-ray to the exact trouble spot: “Mine arm hurt here. Don’t touch mine arm here.”

He was nervous and angry about going to the cast room to be fitted for a splint. He screamed and squirmed and cried. The nurse making the splint was surprised at the Cat’s behavior. She couldn’t get him to calm down. I held his arm tightly while she bandaged the wrist. The Cat protested loudly and didn’t stop crying until we were in the car.

As we walked past the other patients, I heard the murmurs, mainly sympathetic. I was nearly in tears as I held on to the Cat. Anytime I let go of his left arm, he’d try to rip off the splint, which hadn’t yet hardened. He screamed at the top of his lungs, the sound reverberating off of the beautiful skylights in the four-story building. He fell to the ground several times in agony. His anger was pouring out loudly.

A nurse passing us in the hallway tried to be helpful by suggesting that I make him hold his arm upwards so that the blood wouldn’t pool in the splint, increasing the swelling, and therefore the pressure and pain he was experiencing. I knew she was being friendly, but I was in the mood to bite someone’s head off. I didn’t want to be rude, so I just looked exasperated and gestured towards the uncooperative Cat. She nodded, understanding, saying, “Well, you do what you can!” I would have smiled under normal circumstances, but I don’t think I was able to even manage that.

We waited for the parking lot elevator. I was holding on to Spliggle’s stroller with one hand, and the Cat with my other hand. The elevator opened and many people streamed out. One person remained in the elevator, a teenager lounging against the back wall. I expected her to get out, so didn’t immediately board, but she didn’t move. The elevator doors closed. I quickly pushed the button again to open the door. I moved in and the teenager slowly moved over to accommodate the stroller. Many people quickly piled behind, shoving the Cat towards the back. He yelped in fear. His arm bumped against another passenger. He choked on his tears. The two passengers next to the Cat tried to make polite conversation. I nearly gagged because they smelled heavily of smoke and were very close to me. They were friendly to the Cat, but he was screaming and clearly afraid. “Tell your Daddy you rode in an elevator!” one suggested enthusiastically as we left the elevator.

The Cat was so worked up that he tore away from me and headed into the middle of the road where a car was approaching. Thankfully, the car was moving very slowly to scout out parking spots. The same car followed us to our car. I was having trouble juggling everything and hated having someone waiting for us. I didn’t want to be too hasty in jamming everything into the car, and I certainly wanted to handle the Cat with care as I bucked him into his seat. But I could hear the silent tapping of the waiting driver’s foot.

Both boys fell asleep in the car. I wish I could have.

Husband had my van today to take interns to a meeting, so I had his car. It was down to a quarter-tank, so I thought I’d be nice by filling up the tank. When I got out, I thought I heard and felt something fall out of the door brushing my leg as it fell, but I didn’t see anything on the ground. As I pulled away from the gas station, I saw a white rectangle on the ground. A car was already in back of me. I was committed to turning onto the main road. In case the white triangle was an important booklet, reimbursable receipt, or vital note, I traveled 1.1 miles back to the gas station (too many “no U-turn” signs!) only to discover the fallen paper was a dry-cleaning receipt.

Upon reaching home, I transferred both boys successfully: Spliggle to his crib, the Cat to the couch, so both could sleep. I then checked my email expecting to find something about the conference call that I had missed. Instead, I saw that there was an “error” and my messages from this morning hadn’t even been sent! I restarted my computer and sent my brother a third message telling him that the other two had meant to go out earlier this morning. Ack!

Today has been just crazy. I must be in a funhouse. I am going to go do the hoedown. Yee-haw!