Several days ago, my son’s pediatric nephrologist phoned with the results of his kidney biopsy. The phone call was one day late. One day is practically eternity.
First, let me say that prior to our leaving the hospital, I asked this doctor when we would be informed of the results. Her reply: “Possibly Monday, but by Wednesday at the latest.” To my experienced ears, that meant Wednesday at the earliest.
I was right. Wednesday came, and it was nearly noon and we still hadn’t heard a word. Now, just to give you some background, we were waiting to hear what could possibly be causing my sixteen-year-old son’s kidneys to be showing early signs of distress. I had assumed it was his diabetes, but apparently lab tests were indicating otherwise. Previously the doctor had used a scary word, lupus, and said it was “high on her list” as a potential cause. Of course, the night after she made that suggestion I became an internet fiend and an instant expert on lupus, its symptoms, treatment, and prognosis. But we’d hear for sure on Wednesday. (Right.)
So when Wednesday came and I was ready to eat off my own hand with anxiety, I decided to call the doctor’s office and be as annoying as humanly possible. (Well, at least a little annoying.) I got a recorded announcement. “You have reached the department of pediatric nephrology at the university…blah blah blah.” So I left a detailed message, saying I expected to hear from someone today because the doctor said we would.
Hours later, there was no response.
So I picked up the phone. I didn’t care that there was an incredibly high probability that nobody had even heard my previous message; I was going to call again. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, right? I left exactly the same message, restating that I expected to receive results today because the doctor had told me “Wednesday at the latest.” That’s what she told me, and I was holding her to it. I said I was standing by. Yes, I was obnoxious.
After some time, still no response. So I phoned again. I figured this voice mail system and I would become fast friends. The phone rang. but wait–no voice mail this time. I got the poor, weary receptionist, live in person. I cleared my throat and started into a nearly-exact repeat of my previous messages, but she stopped me. She recognized my voice—I was the annoying jerk who expected to hear the results by Wednesday and yadda yadda. She said, “Our nurse Diane will call you when she gets around to it. She’s in a meeting right now, and I’m not sure how long it will last, but she calls people back in the order of priority.”
Oh, no, no, no. This would NOT do.
“I was told,” I said, “by the doctor herself that we would hear about the results today at the latest. She said that she would call, not a nurse.”
The receptionist was annoyed. “You know, it takes longer than a week to get these kinds of results.”
I took a slow, deep breath. “That’s not what I was told. The doctor said I’d hear by Wednesday. Those were her words. She said Wednesday. And she didn’t say Diane, or Debbie, or Duane would call. She said that SHE would be calling me with the results.”
Silence.
“So would you please have the doctor call me?” I asked.
“I’ll give her the message,” she said, clearly bothered.
Wednesday passed, and I was miffed. I wanted to know those test results, dang it. I had waited long enough. I had budgeted my emotions just right to get me through to Wednesday. Not Thursday. Not Friday. I was inflexible. Wednesday was the day, and now my patience was all used up. Grrrr.
It was Thursday, early in the evening, when the phone call came.
I’ll talk about that call in my next blog, but for now I’ll chalk this experience up to the reality that sometimes you have to be a tiny bit nasty to get what you need. (And even then you’ll wait.) I think these doctors and nurses sometimes forget how important results are to waiting parents. For them, it’s just reading a report over the phone. For us, it’s our child’s life, health, and livelihood. So miss receptionist, excuse me if I get a little testy. Waiting around for nurse Diane to call “when she gets around to it” is a very cold lump of oatmeal to swallow when your child has serious medical concerns. And I’ve never cared much for oatmeal (especially when it’s cold).
Kristyn Crow is the author of this blog. Visit her website by clicking here. Some links on this blog may have been generated by outside sources are not necessarily endorsed by Kristyn Crow.
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