Having a son with special needs means we’ve met our fair share of doctors over the past six years.
And, given Andrew’s newest set of “circumstances,” we’re on our way to meeting many, many more.
I’ve taken to compiling what I consider to be significant scientific data on these “specialists” in order to pass the time during our appointments (because who wants to pay attention when they’re busy with their medical mumbo-jumbo talk anyway?), and have come to the following conclusion, based purely on fact and not because I am overly sensitive and want everyone to like me and be my best friend, although quite honestly I find nothing wrong with wanting a little attention and positive feedback every once in a while and maybe even a “My goodness does that top really bring out the green in your eyes Mrs. Ashline”
anyhoo, what my data clearly reflects is that there is a definite Specialization to Ass Ratio, meaning that the more specialized a Dr. is in his field, the greater the odds are that he or she is a giant douche.
I met such one “Specialist” today and during our delightful 3.5 hour appointment , I had the distinct pleasure of trying to hold a conversation with a man whose personality resembled that of a super absorbency tampon. Of course, when I happened to mentioned that we were devasted by Andrew’s latest diagnosis and felt as if we were facing his mortality for the very first time, I felt like he really dug deep and accessed a long dormant sensitive side that was just aching to come out:
“Life is a fatal disease Mrs. Ashline; we’re all going to die, we just prefer to pretend that we’re not.”
But in the end, I came to appreciate him for what he is (a man who is brilliant in his field and whose only purpose in our lives is to help us keep Andrew as healthy as possible) and forgive him for what he’s clearly not (a human being).
Plus, I have plenty of friends who were too dumb for medical school. Which means they specialize in the everyday stuff that helps keep me hopeful and sane. Like meeting me at starbucks, laughing at my jokes, and telling me (more than once) that my Ann Taylor top makes my eyes hypnotic.