Sideways

This is one of those stories that parents will recognize and will re-confirm for adults smart enough not to become parents the wisdom of your choices. This is the story how your day can go sideways for, yes, the right reasons, but still sideways.

As many of you know, the girl has been battling a badly torn ligament in her right ankle, as in almost completely torn back in May. She’s been in physical therapy since then, and she played in nationals in July, and, while she didn’t hurt the ankle any more, she did set her recovery back. A month later, school underway, she was back playing club soccer and we were at a tournament in Texas, when suddenly her hips felt like they just wouldn’t work and she was in a lot of pain. The tournament trainer gave her some relief, doing some pretzel things to her body, and told her both that this often happened with leg joint injuries: they travel up and down the body. Do your exercises, keep up your PT, and you’ll get better, because, he warned, this could just as easily move into your back.

Fast forward a week and the girl starts having serious back pain. Okay, we said, this was not unexpected. Rest and ibuprofen will see her through. By Wednesday, it was so bad that she said she couldn’t sit still in her classes and indeed when she came home, she couldn’t sit to do homework. Okay, okay … but, as you all know, back pain goes deep into your being and by evening’s end she was both in pain and in tears.

Thursday, yesterday, morning, I called her pediatrician, who is great and we had an afternoon appointment. I get the girl from school a bit early and we get to the doctor, who just saw her a few weeks ago for her annual, so she has a baseline in her memory. She checks Lily out, asks lots of good questions, gets a handful of reasonable answers from the teenager, and concludes that it’s 99% the case that it’s muscular and just an unfortunate convergence of physical and emotional stress from both the injury and school. But, she says, let’s make sure it’s not something skeletal, so let’s get you an X-ray and let’s get that today so we have something before the Labor Day weekend.

It’s 4 and we dash to the nearby Children’s Specialty Center. Nice registration people, but their system is incredibly slow. We’re checked in by 4:30, but … they are short staffed and they have to send us to the main hospital for the X-rays. Okay, we say, we’ll just drive it: you don’t have to have us ferried by security. Oh, thank you, they say.

So we make the short drive to the hospital across a series of hot parking lots, find a spot, and walk in. We head to the aquarium where we were told to go, and not ten seconds later a tall woman comes bustling in to escort us to X-ray. Oh, she says, we’re going to go to ER. ER? We ask. Yes, she says, their system is better and faster and we can get you on your way — because the girl’s brow is furrowed deeply worried about homework.

And she does. A half dozen images of my child’s spine, not covered by Blue Cross’s co-pay but part of my deductible — oh, thank you State of Louisiana for our great insurance options — later, and we are in the maelstrom of 5 o’clock traffic headed home.

We are home by 5 and the doctor calls to say the X-rays are clear and proceed with PT and the course of super naproxen and muscle relaxants she prescribed for the girl. Yung-Hsing braves traffic to go to the nearby CVS pharmacy, which is swamped, but everyone is in a reasonable mood — one person tried to start a singalong apparently but couldn’t remember any songs. The pharmacy tells Yung-Hsing they’ll text her when it’s ready because they are so far behind. So she leaves to return home.

We get some dinner and the girl starts trying to do homework, but she can’t think very clearly so Yung steps in to be a bit of an anchor for her. I hang out, but soon it’s after 8 and the pharmacy hasn’t texted and I decide just to go because, surely, after three hours they’ve had time to fill it.

I get to the CVS and they have filled the naproxen but not the muscle relaxant … because they don’t have it?

  • You don’t have it?
  • No, sir.
  • Why didn’t you call us to tell us?
  • Well, if you had left your number, we would have texted you.
  • My wife left you her number but you didn’t text her.
  • Oh.
  • Where else can I go?

At this point, the pharmacist says she’ll call a nearby CVS to see if they have it. They do. Oh, good, I say, let me have the prescription and I’ll head there. Oh, she says, I’ll enter it for you from here. Type type beep. Type type beep. Ten minutes go by of type type beep. It won’t go through. They keep telling me to go ahead and go, but I am not leaving without the prescription or the assurance that the transfer has gone through. (And why, oh why, CVS, can one pharmacist not simply tell another over the phone what’s needed?) You should just go. They close at 9.

It’s 8:40 according to my phone. I decide, against my own better judgement, to go. I get in the truck and head up Camellia to the CVS on the corner of Camellia and Johnston, and, for once, I speed up the boulevard. If a copy wants to clock me, he can follow me into the damn CVS parking lot. I am getting that muscle relaxant and my child is going to sleep.

I arrive at 8:50. I get to the pharmacy counter. They know why I’m there, but the order won’t show up in their damned computer system. I keep standing there. I keep thinking “Why can’t you call? Why can’t you call? What matters more: your system or the well-being of a child?” But I keep my mouth shut.

It’s 8:56, the pharmacy tech is clearly closing up chop, when something beeps. Here it is, announces the pharmacist. She quickly fills the prescription, the tech checks me out, and I bee line it out of the second CVS and third medical facility I have visited today.

And when I step into the muggy, evening heat of the parking lot, Yung-Hsing texts me that she got the text that the prescription is ready. Yes, really.

And that is what happened to four hours of my life yesterday.