"Menachem Begin wore a pair just like them!"
About six weeks ago, the boys’ pediatrician thought he noticed a slight cross-eye in Ian. He referred us to a children’s eye specialist to closely examine Ian because of the perceived defect, and to closely examine Tory because he didn’t want him feeling left out. I called as soon as I returned home, and booked their first open appointment, which was only four weeks into the future.
The office called me two weeks later. The doctor has another commitment on that morning. I need to reschedule. I made another appointment for four more weeks into the future, or for six weeks after I originally called.
Yesterday was that appointment. Not that I could just walk right into their offices. About a week ago they sent me twin sets of paperwork to fill out for my twin boys. One page demanded a detailed medical history for each boy.* Another page asked for contact information for each boy, plus name, address, phone number, and social security number for the birth mother, birth father, current guardian, emergency contact, and, most importantly, the insurance policy holder. A final page required us to acknowledge that we agree to pay the bill in full at the time of service. That way they can reduce the cost of medicine by minimizing their billing department.
They were apparently successful at saving because they were able to afford rent in a shiny new suburban medical complex. I parked the car in their spacious lot, pulled the boys out, and plopped them in the stroller. We then walked through the entrance, and I smacked my forehead when I saw that I failed to take advantage of their valet service.
When I made the appointment, I assumed that I’d take all three children with my unassisted. Instead, I left Abbie at home with my mother, who happened to be visiting for the Independence Day holiday, and Ellie happened to have the morning off and wanted to come. When the waiting process began, I was glad we had the 1:1 child-adult ratio instead of the originally planned 3:1.
Our waits were short in the waiting room, and the secondary-waiting/examination room. Two short waits add up to one medium wait though, especially when I’m trying to keep Abbie from breaking sensitive medical diagnostic equipment while hoping the boys calm themselves back down. Instead, the time flew as I held one boy and Ellie held the other.
First, the doctor gave each boy a cursory examination to verify that the boys (a) had eyes, and (b) could see something. Second, the nurse applied drops to their eyes to dilate their pupils, giving them that creepy anime look. Then we waited 30-60 minutes for the drops to take full effect.
I can’t imagine how awful that wait would have been with three children, especially since they shuffled us into yet another waiting room with a few toys and a couple other patients of varying ages and levels of fury at having drops administered to their eyes. Instead of holding both boys simultaneously while hoping whatever Abbie just put in her mouth is non-toxic, Ellie and I held the boys around a train table and enjoyed the wait by playing with the train. The boys had never really seen a toy train, so this was a treat for them to watch the cars roll back and forth and occasionally bat at them like a less permanently destructive Godzilla. In fact, the entire visit turned into a good opportunity for the boys to play with toys without having a 2-year-old sister swoop up their toys, determine that they have no interest to her, and fling them** across the room.
Exactly 30-60 minutes later, they called us back into the examination room. The doctor completed the assessment by shining a bright light into their dilated pupils, and looking for something out of the ordinary, possibly magic gnomes. The boys tolerated the light very well considering I would have been squirming all over the room if someone did that to me.
The doctor’s verdict was the boys’ eyes were fine. She didn’t see any sign of an abnormality, so our pediatrician must have seen an optical illusion formed by the tight skin around their eyelids and aided by magic gnomes. The doctor did say that their vision is a little nearsighted when farsightedness is the norm for this age,*** so they may wind up in glasses in time for school.
Otherwise, everything looked good. All we had to do was pay our bill, and walk across the hot parking lot to our car. I sure could have used a valet service.
* They were born. They stayed in the NICU for a while. They got their immunization shots. Now they’re seeing you.
** She flings the toys, not the brothers.
*** Or maybe they were farsighted when they should be nearsighted. I can’t remember.
The office called me two weeks later. The doctor has another commitment on that morning. I need to reschedule. I made another appointment for four more weeks into the future, or for six weeks after I originally called.
Yesterday was that appointment. Not that I could just walk right into their offices. About a week ago they sent me twin sets of paperwork to fill out for my twin boys. One page demanded a detailed medical history for each boy.* Another page asked for contact information for each boy, plus name, address, phone number, and social security number for the birth mother, birth father, current guardian, emergency contact, and, most importantly, the insurance policy holder. A final page required us to acknowledge that we agree to pay the bill in full at the time of service. That way they can reduce the cost of medicine by minimizing their billing department.
They were apparently successful at saving because they were able to afford rent in a shiny new suburban medical complex. I parked the car in their spacious lot, pulled the boys out, and plopped them in the stroller. We then walked through the entrance, and I smacked my forehead when I saw that I failed to take advantage of their valet service.
When I made the appointment, I assumed that I’d take all three children with my unassisted. Instead, I left Abbie at home with my mother, who happened to be visiting for the Independence Day holiday, and Ellie happened to have the morning off and wanted to come. When the waiting process began, I was glad we had the 1:1 child-adult ratio instead of the originally planned 3:1.
Our waits were short in the waiting room, and the secondary-waiting/examination room. Two short waits add up to one medium wait though, especially when I’m trying to keep Abbie from breaking sensitive medical diagnostic equipment while hoping the boys calm themselves back down. Instead, the time flew as I held one boy and Ellie held the other.
First, the doctor gave each boy a cursory examination to verify that the boys (a) had eyes, and (b) could see something. Second, the nurse applied drops to their eyes to dilate their pupils, giving them that creepy anime look. Then we waited 30-60 minutes for the drops to take full effect.
I can’t imagine how awful that wait would have been with three children, especially since they shuffled us into yet another waiting room with a few toys and a couple other patients of varying ages and levels of fury at having drops administered to their eyes. Instead of holding both boys simultaneously while hoping whatever Abbie just put in her mouth is non-toxic, Ellie and I held the boys around a train table and enjoyed the wait by playing with the train. The boys had never really seen a toy train, so this was a treat for them to watch the cars roll back and forth and occasionally bat at them like a less permanently destructive Godzilla. In fact, the entire visit turned into a good opportunity for the boys to play with toys without having a 2-year-old sister swoop up their toys, determine that they have no interest to her, and fling them** across the room.
Exactly 30-60 minutes later, they called us back into the examination room. The doctor completed the assessment by shining a bright light into their dilated pupils, and looking for something out of the ordinary, possibly magic gnomes. The boys tolerated the light very well considering I would have been squirming all over the room if someone did that to me.
The doctor’s verdict was the boys’ eyes were fine. She didn’t see any sign of an abnormality, so our pediatrician must have seen an optical illusion formed by the tight skin around their eyelids and aided by magic gnomes. The doctor did say that their vision is a little nearsighted when farsightedness is the norm for this age,*** so they may wind up in glasses in time for school.
Otherwise, everything looked good. All we had to do was pay our bill, and walk across the hot parking lot to our car. I sure could have used a valet service.
* They were born. They stayed in the NICU for a while. They got their immunization shots. Now they’re seeing you.
** She flings the toys, not the brothers.
*** Or maybe they were farsighted when they should be nearsighted. I can’t remember.
posted by Matt at
11:22 PM
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