I’ve taken Colin to three different pediatricians, and I still haven’t found one I love.
The first doctor we saw was the Condescending Knowledgeable One—CKO, which makes him sound like a Calvin Klein perfume. I liked it that whenever I asked a question, he’d answer it by citing a recent study. I didn’t like it that he acted like I was utterly stupid for not being aware of the recent study, though. Once I brought up another study I’d read about to counter his and felt rather smart, but he scoffed at my study and acted like his study was so much better than mine, and my study and I felt deflated. Plus, I started to develop a backache after our visits from continually bending down to pick up the names he dropped.
So we switched. And our second doctor was very nice. But she just didn’t know that much. At first I thought, oh well, she’s nice. But the thing about doctors who don’t know much is that they’re continually sending you to get lab tests, “just in case.” Poor Colin was pricked repeatedly with needles.
Plus, once we ran into CKO in the halls when we were seeing the nice doctor. It was so awkward, like running into an ex-boyfriend. He pretended to be happy and enjoying his life without us—you know how ex-boyfriends put on a cheerful front—but I knew he was secretly pining. Actually, I was secretly pining. I admit it. I regret our breakup. Knowledgeable is better than nice—for doctors, anyway.
For our third doctor, I switched to a different Kaiser location. I didn’t want a string of exes. People would start to say we were fast.
This doctor seemed nice, and he actually took an interest in Colin’s medical history, which doctor number two never did. I asked the third doctor about Colin’s congenital hydrocele. (Did I sound condescending and knowledgeable there? It’s water in the testicles—I’m sure my son will be thrilled to know I wrote about this when he’s older.) Doctor number three poked around a bit and referred us to a urologist.
So we went to a urologist because when a doctor says you have to do something like that, you really have to, right? I set the alarm and Colin and I drove through morning traffic to Oakland to see the urologist for a five minute appointment. The doctor looked at Colin and said, “I don’t see a hydrocele. Where is it?” When I admitted I didn’t even know what I was looking for, the urologist acted like I was the most negligent and ignorant mother in the world. It’s a weird thing about confidence mixed with condescension. It works. So I immediately felt awful. Why hadn’t I typed “hydrocele” into Google Images and looked at pictures of babies’ enlarged testicles? Clearly that’s what a good mother would have done.
At any rate, the urologist told me the hydrocele was gone. Then, after he touched my son’s genitals with his bare hands for five minutes, he offered me his hand to shake. Really. I get it that it takes a special type of person to become a urologist, but even I wash my hands after I help Colin use the toilet.
Yes! I shook it! What was I supposed to do?
But all this means that doctor number three didn’t just send us to get unnecessary lab tests downstairs. He sent us through rush hour traffic to Oakland.
I’m not sure what to do now. I guess I should go crawling back to CKO, see if he’ll have me. Maybe I could try to impress him by pretending I know someone famous in the medical world, like Dr. Dre—or does Dr. Dre have a Ph.D. and not a medical degree? Note to self to check that out. I wouldn’t want to look stupid, not this time around.
The first doctor we saw was the Condescending Knowledgeable One—CKO, which makes him sound like a Calvin Klein perfume. I liked it that whenever I asked a question, he’d answer it by citing a recent study. I didn’t like it that he acted like I was utterly stupid for not being aware of the recent study, though. Once I brought up another study I’d read about to counter his and felt rather smart, but he scoffed at my study and acted like his study was so much better than mine, and my study and I felt deflated. Plus, I started to develop a backache after our visits from continually bending down to pick up the names he dropped.
So we switched. And our second doctor was very nice. But she just didn’t know that much. At first I thought, oh well, she’s nice. But the thing about doctors who don’t know much is that they’re continually sending you to get lab tests, “just in case.” Poor Colin was pricked repeatedly with needles.
Plus, once we ran into CKO in the halls when we were seeing the nice doctor. It was so awkward, like running into an ex-boyfriend. He pretended to be happy and enjoying his life without us—you know how ex-boyfriends put on a cheerful front—but I knew he was secretly pining. Actually, I was secretly pining. I admit it. I regret our breakup. Knowledgeable is better than nice—for doctors, anyway.
For our third doctor, I switched to a different Kaiser location. I didn’t want a string of exes. People would start to say we were fast.
This doctor seemed nice, and he actually took an interest in Colin’s medical history, which doctor number two never did. I asked the third doctor about Colin’s congenital hydrocele. (Did I sound condescending and knowledgeable there? It’s water in the testicles—I’m sure my son will be thrilled to know I wrote about this when he’s older.) Doctor number three poked around a bit and referred us to a urologist.
So we went to a urologist because when a doctor says you have to do something like that, you really have to, right? I set the alarm and Colin and I drove through morning traffic to Oakland to see the urologist for a five minute appointment. The doctor looked at Colin and said, “I don’t see a hydrocele. Where is it?” When I admitted I didn’t even know what I was looking for, the urologist acted like I was the most negligent and ignorant mother in the world. It’s a weird thing about confidence mixed with condescension. It works. So I immediately felt awful. Why hadn’t I typed “hydrocele” into Google Images and looked at pictures of babies’ enlarged testicles? Clearly that’s what a good mother would have done.
At any rate, the urologist told me the hydrocele was gone. Then, after he touched my son’s genitals with his bare hands for five minutes, he offered me his hand to shake. Really. I get it that it takes a special type of person to become a urologist, but even I wash my hands after I help Colin use the toilet.
Yes! I shook it! What was I supposed to do?
But all this means that doctor number three didn’t just send us to get unnecessary lab tests downstairs. He sent us through rush hour traffic to Oakland.
I’m not sure what to do now. I guess I should go crawling back to CKO, see if he’ll have me. Maybe I could try to impress him by pretending I know someone famous in the medical world, like Dr. Dre—or does Dr. Dre have a Ph.D. and not a medical degree? Note to self to check that out. I wouldn’t want to look stupid, not this time around.
