Alternatively titled: “Well, We Can Never Go Back To THAT Doctor Now.”
Sam had an appointment with an allergist this morning because he seems to have seasonal allergies that leave him kind of gaspy. Concerned that one day he would just drop dead on me, I’ve taken him to his pediatrician about it. They said that his oxygen levels are fine, but that he “looks” allergic and we should take him to the allergist.
Done and done.
We arrived at the basement level (this is important) of the building shortly before our 8:45 a.m. appointment. We walked past the stairs, which I briefly considered using before I remembered that the doctor’s office was on the 5th floor, six flights of stairs above us. So we continued on to the elevator. Unfortunately, there was a sign taped to the elevator that said, “NO POWER.”
Awesome. Back to the stairs.
Hey! Guess what, guys? I’m really out of shape. Also, Sam can run up stairs really fast.
We arrived and were quickly ushered into an exam room. Interestingly, the office had power. The power outage seemed to have affected only the elevator. And the Diet Coke machine I tried to use later.
So we’re sitting in the exam room and I start to feel…weird. The nurse took some vitals, including a breathing test for Sam, and then the doctor came in. It was probably the most efficient doctor’s office I’ve ever been in.
The doctor commenced to asking me questions and I could tell that I was answering them with gaping pauses because mostly all I could think about was why the room was so fucking hot, why did my extremities feel all tingly, and whose great goddamn idea was it to put that giant window in the room to let in all that bright sun?
Being a Don’t Rock the Boat-er, I carried on, pretending nothing was wrong and figuring that if I passed out from the heart attack I was clearly having that at least I was in a doctor’s office. Although I’m not sure the allergist would be able to do a lot for me.
Fortunately, after a few minutes, the intense physical feelings I was having ebbed and I was able to focus a little better. They gave Sam a couple blasts from an inhaler and left us for ten minutes before they were to come back to give him a second breathing test.
I imagine that I was having a blood sugar reaction. I have hypoglycemia (and, yes, I know everyone has hypo-fucking-glycemia, but I was actually tested for and diagnosed with it) and hadn’t eaten that morning. I think that combined with the unexpected stair climb and that horrible room that seemed to be situated INSIDE THE FUCKING SUN took me down.
Either that, or it was a panic attack. Is it possible to have a panic attack if you don’t feel panicked during it?
About this time, Quinn says he has to go to the bathroom. We ask the receptionist for the key, leave the office, walk down the hall, unlock the door, and go into the bathroom (that looong sequence is important later). Quinn has to poop and says he can wipe himself. Normally I check him, but because I was still feeling unstable, I just leaned on a wall and let him do his thing. He washed his hands and we walked back to the exam room.
At which point I became aware of a terrible smell.
I took Quinn back to the bathroom, wiped him, threw away his underwear because, yeah, I’m not carrying THAT in my purse, and returned to the exam room. Quinn of course is screaming because, “I LOVED that underwear! I LOVED that underwear! Can we take it home?! I LOVED THAT UNDERWEEEEEAAAAAR!”
By this time, the doctor is back in the room and Jack is working hard to either discover all the features of the exam table, including the stirrups, or trying to disassemble the damn thing. I’m not sure which.
They lay Sam down on the exam table to put allergens on his back and leave us alone for another ten minutes with strict instructions to not let Sam touch his back or otherwise scratch it. Thank God for the iPhone and the games on it, is all I have to say.
By the time the doctor comes back in, I’m feeling better and feel like maybe we’ll make it through this visit with only a few snafus (for those of you who don’t know, Situation Normal All Fucked Up, and yes, that very much describes much of my life).
The doctor tells me that Sam is fortunately not allergic to dogs or cats, but is indeed very allergic to dust mites. Which, I gotta say, Good Luck to you, Sam, because you were born into the wrong house to be allergic to dust mites. Also, Good Luck to me trying to spray nose spray into him on a daily basis from now on. But I was learning what to do and the doctor was writing down various instructions and whatnot when HOLY CRAP, YOU KNOW THAT 30-SECOND WARNING FEELING YOU GET WHEN YOU KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO THROW UP?
I flashed through the process that would be required for me to make it to the bathroom and then compared that with the possibility of the doctor finishing what she had to say before something bad happened.
Neither were a possibility.
I interrupted the doctor, who was telling me something about encasing mattresses—I honestly have no idea; I missed almost all of her instructions—to say, and this is some good stuff, “I’m sorry, but I’m feeling really nauseous and I think I’m going to have to throw up into your garbage can.”
Yes. That’s what I said. And I wasn’t so far gone that I couldn’t see the look on her face. Good fucking times.
The doctor was kind enough to leave the room. I hadn’t eaten that day yet, so nothing really disgusting happened, but at that point it didn’t really matter. And here’s something else: I don’t think my kids even noticed.
I almost immediately felt better and we bumbled our way out of the office, walked down six flights of stairs to the building cafe and sat there for a half hour while the kids ate M&Ms and I ate a banana.
Some days can only get better.