Waiting

Just waiting. Daisy has an ear infection or perhaps swimmers ear, which, of course, is an ear infection. She hurts and it started around 7 and it's cold here, finally, and of course she gets an ear infection. Tylenol didn't cut the pain, really, and I called the exchange at 8.

The doctor called me back around 8:12. Yes, 8:12. The one with the funny mustache. Or at least he used to have one. He looks like what you think a doctor with a funny mustache would look like. He agreed that it sounded like an ear infection. Numbing drops for overnight if they work on her. They do, I tell him. Then of course we'll do that, he tells me.

But he can't take down my information for some reason. He wants me to call the exchange back and give them my pharmacy information. This song and dance means that it's now too late to go to my regular pharmacy, which closes at 9 and, perhaps because of this, is staffed by friendly people. The big guy with the earrings and the St. Christopher medal. The woman with the perfect eye makeup and nice smile. The older woman, perfectly dyed blond hair and large glasses. I like them. They answer questions, they tell me where the diaper ointment has moved to, they're good people.

So I call back and almost give the pharmacy catty-cornered from that one (one is a department store and one is that odd sort of pharmacy dime store collection of make up and photo development and last year's toys). I hate that pharmacy, but it's 24 hours. But Jake reminds me that they don't take our insurance anymore, so I scoot through the website of an identical place, with a different name, that does take our insurance, and give that to the woman on the exchange.

And then I wait.

At 8:50, I call the pharmacy and the snippy woman on the phone tells me she hasn't gotten a call from our doctor. So I make another series of phone calls to the exchange to find out what the hell is taking everybody so long to do this. It isn't like it's the middle of the night. It isn't like a pediatrician on call doesn't know how to do this.

The mustachioed doctor calls me back. He DID call in the prescription, but they don't check the line except on the hour. So at 8:50, they wouldn't have it. If only the snippy woman had told me that. I put on my coat and head out.

It's down Gravois quite a ways, the city-county line, just a literal stone's through from the River des Peres. I have this aching tired nausea covering my whole body. A headache coming on. Exhaustion. The pharmacy dime store has carpeting, setting it apart from its rival. The folks in the pharmacy on the night shift are jolly and the young blond who isn't as young as her makeup wants to pretend, is teaching everyone naughty phrases in Bosnian. Bosnian is the same as Serbo-Croatian, I think to myself. And I can understand the pronouns and prepositions and the occasional noun. But the come ons and double entendres she's spouting between giggles are just pronouns and prepositions for me. Schtah. Gdye. I sit in the waiting area with my phone, playing sudoku and getting progressively worse at it, and getting warm in my German army coat. It got my daughter through a Philadelphia winter, I remember the military surplus store owner telling me on Galveston Island when I bought it.

Finally the call for Daisy comes in and they fill the numbing drops prescription and I pay my $4.88, wondering how these prices get negotiated. Why not $5? Or $4?

Back home, she's asleep. Not for long, and the drops go in. I know I'm looking forward to a trip to the pediatrician in the morning, but it'll be fine. She'll sleep, I'll sleep, all will be well.

This, of course, is a false hope, and at 11:30 when she wakes screaming in pain, I realize I'm in for it. Groznica u funk kući sada.