When I was little, I was in and out of the hospital a lot.  My kidneys never seemed to work right until I was about nine or ten.

I remember one time when I was about five, I was there by myself, sitting in the hallway in a wheelchair and my neighbor who was a young nurse in her 20s at the time, sought me out and sat beside me. She patted my arm and looked me in the eye and made me feel safe.

I remember sitting in that wheel chair, feeling the warmth of her hand on my forearm and looking at her white hose and nurse cap.  Even at five, I was overly self-reliant and a stubbornly brave soldier, but I remember the feeling of relief wash over me at seeing her familiar face.  I think from that day, I’ve always had a respect and admiration for nurses. They represent something to me that feels like security.

This afternoon, I had the honor of attending a program at my hospital recognizing excellence in nursing.  I call it “my” hospital because there are many hospitals in my area but this is the one I choose even though it is in a terribly inconvenient location for me.  Ergo, it is “my” hospital.

I have had the privilege of having a number of my spare parts removed at this hospital over multiple occasions and each time the care I received from the nursing staff and the patient care technicians was beyond excellent.  And each time I wrote a letter to the hospital president to bring this to his attention, naming names as I am prone to do. And each time he responded promptly and personally with a note of appreciation which told me that the culture of excellence in patient care starts at the top in this hospital.  This is an organization that prizes the human-to-human dynamic.  And that’s the kind of hospital you want to be in should the occasion arise.

As I sat in the auditorium, I watched different nurses come to the front to receive recognition awards in various categories.  I thought about how being a nurse is one of the very few careers where you can really make a difference in the life of another human being;  the rest of us are just pushing paper from here to there.  Nursing is one of the few jobs where you put your hands on another human and you look them in the eye. Not everyone can do that.  There is nothing impersonal about nursing.

I thought about the nurses who cared for me after each of my surgeries, who did things for me that only my mother should have to do, and did so with respect and dignity, who when they came to my room to attend to me, made me feel like I was the most important person in the world, who were terribly concerned that my pain was manageable, who would explain everything and empower me with information, who knew when to give sympathy, when to cheerlead and when to prod – who would look me in the eye and pat my arm and make me feel safe.   Nurses who cared not just for me but about me, a human,  rendered vulnerable and helpless by circumstances beyond her control.

If you know a nurse, remember to tell them from time to time how much you appreciate what they do to make the world a better place.  And if you’ve been cared for by an excellent nurse, take the time to write a letter and let someone know.

Every time I go to visit a doctor, I am handed a three-page statement detailing their privacy policy which I then have to sign and initial to give the impression that I actually read it.  I am often tempted to hand the unsigned forms back to the receptionist saying, “No thank you. I don’t care for any of your privacy.  I have a blog.”  Perhaps I should give them a copy of my privacy policy wherein I pinky swear that I won’t use their real name, while reserving the right to caricaturize and embellish upon the character of anyone working in or near their office.

I find the lengths to which my dentist goes to in the name of privacy especially amusing.  When I get there, I sign in and then the receptionist swoops in like a Sharpie wielding vulture using a super industrial strength espionage-proof permanent BLACK marker to blot out all evidence that I signed in to get my teeth cleaned. And good thing, because how embarrassing would that be if the world found out that I had my teeth cleaned?

So in complete violation of my doctor’s privacy policy, I’m going to tell you that last week I had my annual mammogram.

After Granny Clampett escorted me to the waiting area, she directed me to disrobe from the waist up and ordered me to store my things in a locker which was approximately the size of a coin slot.  And then I was given what she called a “cape” to wear while I waited for my turn in the panini press. This cape could probably be best described as the love child between a shrug and a poncho – a shruncho.

I made my way out into the ladies lounge with as much dignity as one can muster when one is wearing a Bazooka pink one-size-fits-all shruncho and facing the high likelihood of a wardrobe malfunction.

I then found myself a chair and sat down being very careful keep my arms in the folded, upright and locked position at all times. And to not make eye contact with any of the other shruncho-wearing ladies.  Back when I had a dog, if I wanted her to do something she didn’t want to do or if she got in trouble, she would close her eyes real tight and shiver a little and pretend to be invisible. If her eyes were closed, no one could see her.  So I tried that for a while.

And then I got bored with looking at the inside of my eyeballs and got the idea that maybe, like all the other ladies who were also pretending to be invisible, I could read a magazine.

In the center of the room was a big low coffee table that had magazines strewn all over it, so I stood carefully, making sure to keep the shruncho in place and then I nonchalantly slid over to the coffee table.  With my arms wrapped around my mid-section and clutching my ribs, I leaned over the coffee table just a little to see what my choices were. Jackpot! A recent issue of InStyle!  But you know what? It’s almost impossible to pick up a magazine without using your hands.

So I did a deep knee bend and swayed my back a little, as though maybe I was setting down a round of drinks.  And then by flexing my wrist, sort of like a penguin,  I was able to ever so carefully pluck the magazine off the table with a lobster-like grasp.

I made my way back to my chair and looked forward to numbing my mind with a little Hollywood fashion, but the second I sat down, the magazine slid off my lap and onto the floor.

Being a person whose motto is Safety First! I stretched out my leg and kicked the magazine under the chair.  And then I sat very still with my eyes closed tight and shivering a little until my name was called.

* * * *

And now for a public service announcement.

Mammograms are no big deal and nothing to be feared or dreaded. It’s not terribly comfortable, but it’s not terribly painful either – or at least it shouldn’t be. Usually, they take two pictures of each breast which takes about 7-10 seconds each and it’s done.   However mammograms are not the be all, end all for breast cancer detection. Do your monthly self-breast exam be aware of any changes.

A number of my younger readers  reported they won’t need their first mammogram for several years but you still need to do self-exams and be aware of your breast health as breast cancer happens to women of all ages.  I lost a friend to breast cancer when she was only 28.

Last week I had to go see one of my many doctors for a yearly check up so that he would continue to prescribe the pharmaceuticals of which I am so fond.

He has an office in one of the large local hospitals and as I walked through the maze of halls that snake through a small city of professional buildings, I was struck by the fact that everyone I passed was dealing with some sort of medical drama, either for themselves or someone they love.  And as I looked into the faces of the people I passed, I recognized in them that expression of fear that comes with an uncertain future.  And once you’ve been down that road yourself, you become attuned to the look and smell of that brand of fear.

When I got into the elevator, there was already an older gentleman standing in the back. I pushed the button for my floor and then turned to acknowledge him with a smile.

The doors hushed shut and the elevator began to hum as it moved us upwards, just the two of us.  He pulled his collar back to show me where had just had a biopsy of some sort on his neck.  “Glad that’s over,” he said to me.  I leaned slightly forward to look at his neck, not because I wanted to, but because I knew he needed me to look at it.  He needed to show someone and I was there.

“Wow,” I said. “Did it hurt?” I asked.  “Nah. Not too much,” he said bravely if not convincingly.   “Well you know what?” I said, “These docs here, they’re good. They’ll fix you up,” I encouraged.  It’s true. These docs here, they fixed me up a couple of times.  He pulled his collar together with both hands as though he were suddenly cold and stared at the floor.

The elevator doors parted and he stepped off into his uncertain future.  I watched him walk away as the doors shut and I hoped that he had someone waiting at home who would look at his neck and ask if it hurt.

When I got to my doctor’s office, I sat in the waiting room waiting to be called.  An older couple came in. The gentleman took a seat and the woman left with a nurse.  He sat down across from me and drummed his foot like a rabbit. I could see the worry etched deeply in his forehead.  He stood and walked to the window. And then sat down again.  And then stood again, turning one way and then the other but not going anywhere.  He literally didn’t know which way to turn.

He finally turned to me and said, “I think she’s going to be okay. I think so… I hope so.” He looked at me for confirmation, for hope. I leaned forward in my chair to indicate interest.  He needed to speak those words and he needed me to hear them.  ”Well you know what?” I said to him, “You’re in the right place. These docs here, they’re good. They’ll fix you up.”  He nodded and sighed deeply.

Before I left the hospital that day, I had encountered several people who needed to express their fears, to release them to another human being, even a complete stranger.  Why me, I don’t know.  I don’t know if I had a particular openness to me that day or if in me they saw a kindred spirit, someone familiar with their brand of fear. Or maybe I was wearing a sign on my back that read, “Please. Tell me about your medical condition. I want to know.”

As I was driving home I thought about how hospitals have volunteers to tell you how to get from one part of the medical maze to another or to validate your parking ticket, but I think what they really need are people to wander the halls and ride the elevators to look at necks and accept released fear and offer words of encouragement, people who would wear a sign on their back that says, “Please. Tell me about your medical condition. I want to know.”

So then, last week I had a doctor’s appointment.  I always take a little extra time getting ready for the doctor and dab a little Dr. Pepper behind each knee, don’t you?

It was a mostly uneventful doctor’s visit except for the fact that the good doctor had a medical student helping him.   The nurse was kind enough to ask me first if I minded if the med student was in the room observing.  I said, “Sure, why not? The more the merrier!” Which made her laugh. Tip:  If you can make the nurse laugh, you can get more samples.

The intern was 12-years-old.  Or maybe he just looked to be 12-years-old.   Doogie Howser comes to mind.

With the real doc at one end and the boy doc at the other, I turned to see him not observing at all, but looking at his manicure. And a little green around the gills. I tried not to take it personally.

To distract him from the unspeakable horror of seeing an aging woman in what can only be described as an awkward position, I asked this young child what kind of doctor he wanted to be when he grew up. No, not really. I didn’t say that last part out loud. I don’t think I did anyway.

He told me he wanted to be a gas doctor.  I wasn’t sure if he meant he was studying to be a gastroenterologist or an anesthesiologist.  When no one said anything, he quickly clarified that he wanted to be an anesthesiologist.

I wanted to tell him that if you are going to be a gas doctor, be a big gas doctor. Just to see if I could get more samples out of the nurse.

But I didn’t say it. Out loud.   I restrained my inner 4th grade boy.  Until now.

And now Antique Mommy is chuckling inappropriately and putting herself in time out.

Since we learned last month that our child is peeing pancake syrup, we have made heroic efforts to cut the sugar out of our diets.  And the person who has been most compliant and most faithful to this lifestyle change is Sean.  He has simply accepted it and goes along with little complaint. 

The other day, his teacher told me that when he was offered candy at school, he politely declined.  He pointed to his arm where his blood was drawn and said the doctor told him no candy until his blood was better.  It kind of breaks my heart that he is so mature about it because I personally want to throw myself down on the ground and pound my fists and rail about the unfairness of it all.

Not being able to have candy or sweets is really hard on kids because every occasion is a candy occasion and every holiday is candy-centric — and Easter is perhaps the worst of all.

To make matters worse, when it came time to fill the Easter eggs last week, not only did I not fill them with candy, but I filled them with money from his own piggy bank.  Why not just fill them with broccoli or tofu?  What kind of mother would do such a thing?  He didn’t seem to notice.  After he found all the eggs, he simply wanted to hide them and hunt them again because unlike the adults, he gets that it’s not about the candy. 

So then, earlier this week we visited with a pediatric nephrologist, a doctor who deals with all things kidney to see if we could figure out once and for all why Sean has so much sugar in his urine and if we should continue with our regimen of no candy, obsessive hand wringing and asking him 30 times a day if he feels okay and is he sure he feels okay. 

After reviewing the bloodwork, the doctor said his best guess is that Sean has inherited a genetic mutation which causes his kidneys not to filter out the sugar properly.  The doctor said in his 20 years of practice, this is only the second case of this he has come across.  Two in 20 years.  See? My child is super special, it’s not just me saying that now, it’s been medically proven.

The good doctor assured us that we have no cause to worry — Sean’s condition is totally benign.  Unlike those dimples of his that are lethal and cause his mother’s heart to beat apace.