Quack

This is when I get to be validated and say to Ryan, "SEE! Now you can't give me shit for not going to the doctor. EVAR."

I have this thing about actually seeking medical attention. It's hereditary. Mom and Lauren have it as well, which has actually lead to (what the medical professional she was eventually forced to visit called) being three days away from death. Whatever. She lived.

Every time I go to the doctor, no matter how long I waited or how much the symptoms have multiplied? They tell me there's nothing wrong. Or to take Advil. Or sleep. Or, I kid you not, "blink more." DUDE.

Obviously, I now refuse to go - ever. It just makes me feel like a hypochondriac ass and costs me a $10 co-pay.

Though I will not haul my own ailing behind to the doctor, I feel that might be cruel and unusual punishment for someone who is yet to reach the tender young age of three months. Especially when he's got what looks like a clear gummy bear (sans limbs and ears) under his tiny little tongue.

Cael was born with a fluidy mass cysty thing in his mouth. It didn't appear to hurt him and every doctor/nurse he ran across while at the hospital said, "it'll go away."

Well, it hasn't - it's just grown with him. Pediatrician finally advises us to go to an ENT specialist. So we did.

I'll skip over the hour and a half waiting period and the fact that ENT doc was a royal jerk of unparalleled proportions and get to the part where he jams a tongue depressor in Cael's mouth and says, "What am I supposed to be looking for? I don't see anything." Or, at least, I think that's what he said. It was hard to hear over Cael's uncontrollable screaming.

I stick my finger in Cael's mouth and damned if Dr. Jerko was right. The paraplegic gummy bear was gone.

Doc looks at me like I'm one of those freaky mothers who flips out about the tiniest things and I just know he's convinced I saw a spit bubble and went ape-shit. He snaps off his gloves, says, "There's nothing there. If you think you see it again, Google it," and leaves.

Google it? I know I should be most affected by the fact that the huge clear thing has disappeared and most likely was violently and painfully ruptured with a wooden poker, but Google it?

You know that at some point in the future I'm going to be sitting at home with a severed finger going, "Cael, get the sewing kit and log on to WebMD. We've got some stitching to do."