Dr Judgemental and the cans of doom

By: pixbyshumbles

Oct 10 2013

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Category: October 2013

3 Comments

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Doctors. They’re very black and white in my experience. At times detached: have you ever been ushered out the door about two seconds after your bum has hit the seat? That’ll be €50 please.

And the lingo? Baffling at times. I don’t want the Latin explanation for my ailment, English will do just fine and hand over the drugs my good man!

At worse they can be a condescending bunch.

Take the individual I had the dubious pleasure of meeting yesterday. A paediatrician he was. We went along because nobody had weighed Mini Me since he was born and at four weeks old we were a little curious as to how he was getting on. The other thing that prompted this was a visit from a neighbour, a self-styled baby guru who mainly talks through her ass. She took one look at Mini Me and announced that he had a cold and was in fact probably in the grips of deathly pneumonia.

All because we refused to roast him like a free range chicken. She then proceeded to whisk him into our bedroom and wrap him in about 50 blankets. When I saw him he looked four times bigger and a bit like a Bratwurst.

It is 30 degrees here most days.

I’ve found the Achilles heel of Brazil: the cold. They’re afraid of it and have made a national sport out of overdressing their kids. That And. They. Have. No. Boundaries.

Rattled, and wailing uncontrollably in my case, we decided to bring the boy wonder to the doc.

It took three goes before we were successful. On the first day we were told that the doctor only sees ten patients each day and then goes home.

Nice job if you can get it eh?!

Still, we saw the nurse instead and got his weight and length measurements which are good. We resolved to come back the next day to get him looked over.

Let me tell you about getting out of the house: it requires a military operation with maps of the target area, nerves of steel and enough grub to feed a small battalion. Before we had lift off we’d to wait for the child to wake up from an unprecedentedly lengthy snooze, twitching as we clock-watched, talking really loudly and then exclaiming “Oh are you awake son?” while shoving a bottle in his mouth. Wind him, change him and wrestle him into the carseat and drive like the clappers to get to the clinic in time. When the dust cleared we discovered that Dr Dolittle had cancelled his appointments. Admitting defeat, we headed home again.

Yesterday we repeated the exercise, got there in good time only to discover that Mini Me had delivered a pooh like no other. Parents or dog owners will be familiar with the term Poohmageddon.

It was everywhere.

The Brazilian wanted to wait till we’d seen the doc but holy shit (no pun intended) there was no way I could meet someone for the first time with a stinkasaurus under one arm. At this point we leapt into action in the nurse’s office, whipped the crappy nappy off and proceeded with Operation Cleanup. Five minutes later Mini Me was fragrant and the paragon of hygiene once more. Shame we can’t say the same for the examination table…

We got precisely three minutes with the doctor. Two minutes and 55 seconds of that involved him giving yours truly a bollocking. Why?

Because I am a failure.

I don’t get me baps out for the lad. Partly due to the ick factor – the ladies don’t enjoy being interfered with at the best of times – but as it happens I was the only preggo person in the history of the world whose boobs actually shrunk over the course of ten months. And for those of you who know me that’s no mean feat since I ain’t exactly Jordan in the cup department.

According to Dr Judgemental it don’t matter that there ain’t no milk in there, I should be feeding Mini Me regardless. He ended his tirade by muttering that if I’d been his patient I’d have been a prize milker. Eh how’s that then, Dear Liza?

The mind boggles: what would he have done? Driven to our home and milked me morning and evening like a Fresian?

Put me on a strict diet of fresh grass and a salt lick?

Strapped two Tetrapaks of Premier Dairies’ finest output to my chest with a straw for the sproglet?

It goes without saying that I just about resisted the urge to slam his know-it-all bald head against the wall as I left the room. Sigh.

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3 comments on “Dr Judgemental and the cans of doom”

  1. Oooooh no – I don’t DO ushered out the door two seconds after my bum has hit the seat? If I am sick enough to pay them €50, then for those 10 minutes they are working for ME! And for that kind of money, I bring a list – yes, a list of ailments, questions and requests. They might not like it but I am absolutely fine with them not liking it – they can go on not liking it and if I don’t understand something, they can explain it again – simply enough so that I DO understand – they went to medical school (which is how they can charge so much) – I did not. Now the Dr. asks ‘is there anything else’ – so you can always train them in after a while 😀

    Looove the pic – LOL! I do advise Joan not to bring over Eggness and Henrietta (she let me name two of her new hens 🙂 ) – unless she wants to turn them into roast chicken! And a word to Nico to be careful be doesn’t become a hot dog! Well if M can become like bratwurst . . .
    Have to say, you are a patient woman – I would be SO ANNOYED if a neighbour, UNASKED, took my child (or puppy or kitten for that matter) whisked them off into MY room and proceeded to re-dress them how she saw fit. That is not just no boundaries – that is bloody rude in my book!
    As for fear of the cold – sure do they not know you’re Irish! We’ve had the second day of grass frost here and I’m thinking about wearing a jacket in the morning, any day now!
    Dr. only sees 10 patients a day and then goes home? What is he – a consultant in an Irish hospital!
    Yep – regularly hear getting a small baby out of the house, being described as a military operation. I think you guys are doing very well to achieve it in one paragraph tho :-D. I’ve also heard dressing a small baby being described as akin to trying to put an octopus in a string bag without letting any tentacles fall through the holes!

    LISTEN TO ME FOR ONE MINUTE (Narkisaurus here!)

    YOU . ARE . NOT . A . FAILURE.
    You endured nine months of what was in part, a horrible pregnancy, with reflux, bleeding and enforced bed rest. You had a needle stuck in your spine and incision in your middle and a resulting few days on medication so that he could be brought into the world, with weeks afterwards of healing, corset-strangulation, weepiness and exhaustion from lack of sleep. THAT and solely that – even without everything else you have have done, means that you are a success.
    And if he (whom I presume being a man, has never given birth or breastfed?) equates success solely with breastfeeding and thus regards my and your mothers entire generation as “failures” because they didn’t – well frankly, I call BULLSHIT on that.
    Soo, lemme get this straight – you should be feeding M . . . on NO breast milk. Feeding a hungry baby no breastmilk at all – is better than feeding them formula? Have I got that one right? Because frankly that make NO sense to me – at all.
    Now I shall proceed to drink tea every day . . . but only tea which has grown in Ireland . . hey ho – no tea. . I must therefore give up tea and so shall be compelled to drink coffee – but I’m still a tea drinker – right?!!
    ” a prize milker” OMG – Please tell me he didn’t actually use those words? Please?
    But hey, even if you had produced a lot of milk – how does that in his confused little mind, equate to either an ability to breastfeed ( and the two do not correlate ) or and this is a vital factor in my mind – you CHOOSING to breastfeed? I mean I presume he knows that even tho’ you sustained a pregnancy and gave birth, it is still YOUR body, right? He hasn’t imagined that it has somehow now become public property or anything?
    Interestingly even some Fresians on a diet of fresh grass and salt lick, who are milked every day, still do not produce anywhere near the quantity of milk that others in the same herd produce. Dairy farmers will tell you that – and they (generally) speaking have never qualified in pediatrics at all!

    You resisted the urge to slam his know-it-all bald head into the wall as you left? Ahh that IS disappointing. Can you imagine the expression of surprise on his face!! And the further expression of astonishment when you declare ‘Sorry your honour but you see this anger is not all my fault – it’s the formula I was fed as a baby”! LOL.

    Ahhhh – the old booby-fed kids are smarter angle. She does know the difference between corelation and causation, right? For any study on that to be absolutely scientific, it would have to be carried out on a large cohort of identical twins – one bottle fed, one breastfed. Name the study – if she can name it (and I very much doubt it exists at all), I’ll consider taking it seriously. Until then it’s a bit like saying, 80% of heart attack sufferers ate bread 48 hours before their had a heart attack – therefore bread causes 80% of heart attacks.
    Now that I’ve calmed down, I’m off to get my toast!

    • YOU’RE the oscillating onion!! Fab name!
      Right, to address your comments: I was fuming that Nosey Parker would march into our room and do that. How effing dare she. She’ll get short shrift next time she tries it. We need an electric fence wrapped around gate to the house 🙂 Or around the cot.
      Yes, the cold thing is nuts! An Irish girl living in Brazil told me she gets daggers from other women because her son is wearing what we (and most sane people) would consider a normal amount of clothes in 18 degree heat. Some even go to the trouble of telling her that he’s cold all the while toasting their kid in a dozen layers! Can you believe that?!
      Narkisaurus, hahah! No, I know I’m not a failure but that’s what was implied by that prick of a doctor. Apparently it’s not my body or my choice, seemingly when I got knocked up I handed over control of my body to the medical establishment. I don’t remember signing it over but there you go. Yes, it would appear that it’s the act of breastfeeding that counts, not the fact that there’s nothing flamin’ well in there. The bar is closed. There ain’t nuffink in there but you know I must breastfeed hence my kid will starve. That’s the logic. It’s probably a blessing that I don’t speak much Portuguese as I’d have started to scream at him and never stopped. I’m reminded of Meet the Fockers, the movie, where Robert De Niro’s character gets a pair of strap on boobies so he can simulate breastfeeding in order to bond with his grandson. I think I’ll order some and send them to Dr Judgemental so he can get over his wee obsession.
      I doubt there is any scientific research to back up the bottle fed kids less clever than booby ones. If that’s the case then most of our generation of Irish babies would be struggling to put 2+2 together instead of being successful professionals since bottle feeding was the way to go in the ’70s.
      What I have learned this week: Doctors; People in white coats with the common sense of the average gnat.

  2. Hahaha. You are not alone in your battles with Dr. Dolittle – he has a few cousins in and around Co. Galway and Co. Sligo. A minimum of 10 e-mails and 10 voice-mails are required simply to get a response that passes the buck to another medical professional. I’ve often wondered why ‘medical professionals’ always refer to each other as ‘professionals’, as if they were the only professionals worthy of the term ‘professional’. One or two around here are going to be having a bad hair day soon, because I’ve just submitted a complaint to the Irish Medical Council.


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