Don't Confuse What It Means To Be Nice

I was never so glad to see morning come. Kev's no better. He did finally drop off to sleep for an hour but he's not better. Vomiting, abdominal pain are worse. He's lost more weight but his stomach is rock hard to touch.

We were raised to be too polite. Or I was anyway. Kevin must have learned it on his own; the rest of his family doesn't have this tendency.

No, I was raised with a confused perception of what being nice means.

Don't out guess the doctor. Don't call and insist. Don't say, ask nicely and accept the answer.

I am far better at figuring out what I can do to change a situation than involving someone else in making the change. Sometimes it's my controlling quality, this time it was my wimpy be nice quality.

It's not Dr. Ling's fault--he's been here just over a week. It's flu season--there are plenty of intestinal "bugs" going around right now. She doesn't know his history well enough or personality enough to recognize that he is much more sick than he shows. He's been too sick to make it clear how bad he feels. We needed to be more proactive.

I need to be more proactive. That's why I am here.

So I remedied that this morning as soon as the clinic opened. Sleep deprivation apparently works wonders to turn a wimp into a bossy wonder.

I've exerted my caregiver authority over him and called Dr. Skinner, his medical oncologist. The receptionist didn't hesitate about getting him worked in as quick as possible this morning.

I expect him to be sent to the hospital, he's that sick. I'm certain Dr. Skinner is going to agree. Or we're going to get a referral to an internist or gastrointerologist. But I'm not confusing wimpy with nice and we're not coming home today until I have a clear explanation of why they aren't looking for an intestinal obstruction and what the plan is to make him well. This isn't going to improve on its own.