I admit it. I'm still slightly put off by perky office staff who do their jobs quite professionally but don't seem to realize our very lives depend on the results of the tests performed by their doctors. Dammit, there should be more fanfare upon our scheduling these appointments and our arrival at the door with a child who has been n.p.o since midnight. Angels singing? Free chardonnay for nervous mothers? I mean, would it kill them to offer parents a sedative? Tranquilizer dart? Brown paper bag to breathe into? Bong hit?
For God's sake, shouldn't there be hugs from a certified counselor at the door?
No. We're on our own and can't control a thing. We must accept that. We sit and attempt to appear as completely normal according to society's standards as possible and enjoy a copy of Highlights Magazine from August of 1983 (which will likely be upside down in my hands, anyway) while we smile at patients and staff who enter the lobby as if we are having high tea, not knowing if our kid's arteries have deteriorated. We must sit on pins and needles, knowing the doctor will run the ultrasound wand over our sedated child's slicked up chest in a dark room steeped in complete silence for what seems like an eternity before there will be any relief whatsoever. Wow, sometimes I REALLY hate being an adult.
There is a little relief for me just knowing that the date is set.
November 9, 2007, at 8 a.m.