This was originally published on hodgepodge in November 2009, soon after we moved to a new state and entered the world of government health care. Thought I'd share it here.Army Hospital
This is the saga I've been promising about our first trip to the Army Hospital. It is long, hence the word saga. Just think of it as a magazine article.
I found myself with all three kids in tow several months ago for our first visit to the DeWitt Army Hospital on Ft. Belvoir, the wonderfully convenient Army post we have been assigned for our medical care. I found the hospital and the adjoining building where I thought Harris’s appointment would be. I scoped out the entrance on my first drive by, looking for a ramp so I would know if I should attempt a stroller entry or not. There did not appear to be one. At this point in the adventure I shift into “new situation” mode- trying to think of what I needed to do, where to go in, how I could manage the kids and bags with no stroller, etc.
The parking lot was packed- not a good sign. The spot I got was only the result of divine intervention. (Didn’t someone once say there are no atheists in parking lots?) The bag situation was ridiculous, but unavoidable- I had a diaper bag for Harris, a bag with books, small toys and sandwiches for the kids as this was unfortunately a lunchtime appointment (unavoidable- you take whatever you can get at this place I have since learned), and my breast pump bag. This day I was feeding Harris bottles and off schedule with when I fed him and when I pumped, so I knew I would have to feed him in 30 minutes and pump about an hour later.
We made it to the Pediatric Clinic, where it took them a while to find Harris, because his name was entered incorrectly in the system. The desk lady and I went through one of those “who’s on first” routines together.
Me: They have him as Morgan but his first name is Harris.
Desk Lady: So his name is Morgan?
Me: No, his first name is Harris, but they have it as Morgan. Harris is his first name but they have it as his last name.
Desk Lady: So Hodges is his middle name?
Me: Strangled cry etc. etc.
Finally they tell me his appointment is in the Family Practice clinic. I was a little upset because in my mind I wanted a pediatrician for my children- they are doctors who specialize in what my children are- children. Makes sense to me. But I try to keep an open mind.
A kind orderly/nurse shows me the way to the clinic- me hauling three bags, a baby in an unwieldy car seat and two children moseying along behind. Oh, by the way, there was a wheelchair ramp but I missed it. I guess the army decided to camouflage it behind a large hedge. The army is good at camouflage, as we all know. So are chameleons. That ramp was invisible to even a well-trained mom’s eyes. I arrive at the clinic, starting to be overwhelmed- not sure of the process here. I approach the long counter across the front. The man looks at me like I am an intruder (maybe the desk should also be camouflaged) and says, “The line’s over there.” Now I see the faint, worn, tiny red line of paint, randomly on the floor across the room. No one is lined up behind it, except me now. The man calls me a second later so I cross the room with my entourage once again. He can’t find Harris. You know why. I try to explain the situation, but now Harris is ready to eat and he’s getting loud.
The man finds Harris’s info, hands me a clipboard with sheets to fill out and I somehow find a seat and fill out the papers. They call me back to check his weight, and the nurse helps me with the car seat. The first scale doesn’t work so we go to another room- now Mac is losing it because he is hungry. It’s like there is no advance warning system for these little kids. They are all of a sudden STARVING, and writhing on the floor in misery. I have to eat, NOW, or I will die. An exam room was unavailable so we had to caravan back out to the waiting room with Harris now inconsolable and Mac saying, “I’m hungry” over and over again as if I am a genie that might pop out a sandwich if he says it the correct number of times which he thinks is approximately 200.
Now I need a sink to warm up Harris’s bottle but there is no way I can take my stuff back through that door again. I need a luggage cart and a personal valet. I think this was the point when I started clicking my heels together and murmuring, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” The wonderful man beside me speaks kindly, says he’s been where I am in life with three small kids- he offers to watch the kids. I slap a sandwich in the kid’s hands and go to warm the bottle. I come back and begin to feed Harris- the kind man chats with me. I say ruefully, jokingly, “right now I’m the mom people look at and shake their heads and say ‘poor thing.’” He is encouraging and I cry a little because of his kindness. For a moment I am ok. Ruthie now has to go potty- ummm, impossible. Go in your pants I tell her. No, I would never say such a thing. She just has to wait. This is one of those other things for which children have no warning system, slowly alerting them that their bladder is filling up and soon they will be in an emergency pee-pee situation. No. It is- BOOM. All of a sudden she has to go so bad she will explode pee everywhere if she can’t get to a potty. I have to go, NOW, or I will explode pee everywhere!
Harris has finished his bottle, the nurse calls us back to a room, we’ve made it. The nurse watches Harris in the room while I take Ruth to the potty with Mac along for the ride. The kids enjoy the moment, “it smells good in here, mommy.” “Don’t touch anything, Mac.” Back in the exam room the doctor shows up. He is kind, he asks about Harris and I have a breakdown. I manage to explain about his feeding issues, how concerned I am. The doctor is wonderful- sympathetic, patient with my post-partum emotional wackiness (hey, I can still claim that 3 ½ months later). I settle and he asks questions and we discuss what could be the problem. He wants to help- he gives me advice on the new hospital, I tell him I think he’s wonderful and I ask him to be Harris’s godfather, I mean, I ask if we can always see him specifically and he says yes. At this happy moment Harris grunts and blows out the nastiest poo ever; I smile calmly and watch it squishing out the side of his diaper and running into the corners of his car seat. It was like the 1812 overture, at the end when the cymbals are crashing, the music has reached a crescendo, the finale that brings us to our feet! The final release! Poo! It was poo-etic. I had had my breakdown though, I had been emotionally immunized. I could take anything at that point.
To wrap up this saga/misadventure- the wait at the pharmacy for Harris’s reflux medicine was 45 minutes- the pharmacy described by the doctor as “like Calcutta- tons of people sitting around looking despondent.” I remember the Calcuttas of my youth, when I could sit and read every Reader’s Digest and National Geographic and leave an hour and a half later with some drugs. Now as an adult with three kids I would need the drugs for myself upfront, so I left- Jay could stop by after work.
Back in the car, all bags and kids stowed, I breathed in and knew it would be so much better next time. I could bring four bags, one containing a baguette and a bottle of wine for myself, plus hire a Sherpa to haul my gear.
These moments, days, are my continuing education and my ongoing sanctification. I used to think I was patient, that I could handle anything. I used to think I was loving, kind, self-controlled. Well, I’m not. Or at least not like Jesus. He must have just been amazing. Seriously. Imagine just living with him and watching him handle life. Of course in my situation he would have known ahead of time that there was a wheelchair ramp. And that would have changed everything for me. But I love a good adventure, and good misadventures are great in the retelling, and Harris’s car seat needed a good cleaning anyway.
