No, not the one who gave me the naked hug. I have a team of specialists, people. A team.
Or, well, I have an OB (AKA the Naked Hugger) and a regular doc. Regular Doc has been my dad and Margaret's GP since right before Margaret had her accident. Only he didn't know he was her doc yet. The switch was that right before. So when it came to getting doctor's orders for Margaret to be moved from an intermediate care unit at the hospital to a rehabilitation center, my dad had to call and explain. Only he couldn't deal with one more thing at that moment, so I called.
I explained the situation to the receptionist, figuring she'd speak with the doctor and either let me know what he said right then or call me back to do so. Do you know what happened? The man got on the phone within a matter of about 30 seconds, got the lowdown and approved the orders. Margaret was moved at 5:00 that night. That man is magical.
Do you know why else he's magical? Because my father, the man who throughout my childhood proudly displayed a poster with a picture of an orangutan and a caption that read, "If I want your opinion I'll beat it out of you" (yes, really... I have a photo of him sitting proudly on his Harley in full biker regalia in front of that poster... he gave one to each of his girls about 10 years ago), actually listens to the man. And follows his instructions. Dad's health isn't great (that's what being free and easy in the 70's will do to a person, I suppose). He gets blood work done regularly. And goes to all of his appointments with Dr. Mike.
Do you know why else he's magical? Because my mother, the woman who had an infection in her leg so bad that she basically slept through her mini-vacation at my grandparents and then promised them she'd go to the doctor as soon as she got home... but went to a cabin in the mountains ALONE for three days before going home (thereby keeping her word, don'tcha know), therefore ending up in the hospital for a week, followed by a couple weeks of home health care... she actually listens to the man. And follows his instructions, gets blood work, etc. etc.
In case you're wondering, yes, there was some confusion in the office with my dad, his wife and ex-wife all being patients. I think it's clear now.
Dr. Mike has officially been my doctor for a few years, but I'd never been to see him until recently. Mostly I don't get sick (this past fall and winter were an aberration... and if my aberration coughs on us one more time I will flip out all over him, mm-hmm). There was one time when I tried to get an appointment, but couldn't. Doc was on vacation and his receptionist didn't have an on-call alternative, nor would she schedule my appointment before he was back. It was bee-zarre, to say the least. And annoying.
I never bothered to find another doctor. When I recently had issues that should be dealt with, I tried again. I have to say I don't care for Dr. Mike's front office people. But the man? He took care of everything that could be handled by him, referred me to an orthopedist for a ganglion cyst (am I becoming freaking cyst-tastic or what?). When I had more issues, I saw his physician assistant, who ran labs and gave me some suggestions on how to manage my dizziness in the meantime.
I didn't get right on the blood work because that night was when Fynn got so sick. Then I was sick. Then I was on my period. I figured my best blood should be tested. So I went when things settled down (and after I resumed prenatals).
Today I was thinking about what the PA said about getting my test results. "If there's a problem, we'll contact you. If not, we won't." Personally, I don't trust this method of communication. Sometimes people overlook something or forget to make a call. Wouldn't it be nice if they could just call? Is that too much to ask?
This evening I asked Tom what came in the mail. "Bill for my car, something from DirecTV (dude, that's junk... have you noticed we've had FiOS going on two years now?) and something for you from some medical place. I don't know what it is."
Turns out it was a card from Dr. Mike's office, but in an envelope so that prying eyes would not know my test results. 'Cuz I'm mysterious like that. It says I'm normal. In writing. I don't care what you've heard or read. Dr. Mike said it, so it must be true. Like magic.
PS Coincidentally, now that Fynn's past that growth spurt/illness/teething thing, I get more sleep. Turns out I'm a lot less dizzy when I'm not exhausted. Go figure!