#587 – BlogChild of Thursday, November 6, – Part V

Does This Mean You’re the Dad?

After I busted from FTOPS Event #1, I signed up for the Midnight Madness and a $220 + $16 NLHE-T Matrix SnG. I quickly learned that the abdominal pain my daughter Ellie had been experiencing earlier in the evening was much worse, bad enough that a trip to the emergency room might be in order. So I unregistered from the Midnight Madness and monitored her suffering, eventually taking her to Scottsdale Heathcare’s emergency room.

But I forgot about the Matrix SnG. It must have taken awhile to fill and the window was behind something else, because it completely slipped my mind. A couple hours later, while waiting in the E/R with Ellie for the results of X-rays and blood tests, I received a text message from our other daughter, Valerie. Valerie told me that a Matrix tournament showed up on my computer screen while she and Jo Anne were in my office going through her homework.

I started texting back that Jo Anne could play it in my place but then realized it wasn’t even a new text message. “There’s $236 in the toilet,” I said to Ellie. She felt responsible, which wasn’t my intention. I explained that it was 100% my fault for not unregistering and, due to my current losing streak, that money was probably mostly lost even if I was there.

When we learned that Ellie’s pain wasn’t anything imminently serious (appendix, kidney, spleen), they prescribed some pain medication, told us about further tests for another day, and sent us home. I called Jo Anne to give her the news and she had some news for me.

“I hope you don’t mind that I tried playing those tournaments when they showed up on the screen. I missed the beginning and it was hard to keep up with four at once, especially because I was still helping Val with homework, but the blinds were soon high enough that I could focus on one and go all-in or fold.”

I had mixed feelings when I asked her how it ended up. “I won the one that I focused on and finished second overall, so you got paid back $300-something.”

“Wait. Wait. Are you telling me you WON MONEY?”

“Well, I didn’t really do anything in the other three. And I didn’t think they were that good in the one I won. You probably have won more.”

I’m sure she was just telling me that to make me feel better. At least she didn’t tell the kids to start calling her the dad.
X-Ray Marks the Spot

My trip to the emergency room with Ellie brought back memories of years and years ago, when all three kids were young and night-time trips to the local treatment center were practically a competitive endeavor. Luckily I had sporadically collected a journal in those days, and kept a humorous entry from that time. I reminded Ellie of that time while we were waiting in the emergency room and found the journal after we got home. This was from circa 1997.

Last week, I took our daughter, Ellen, to the Treatment Center.  She bumped her toe at school.  We try to minimize most of Ellie’s ailments – we have to – but by the time I arrived home from work, her toe was very swollen and discolored.  In her words, “it’s so big that I can’t pick the lint out of the toe next to it.”

Unbeknownst to me, the highlight of the juvenile injury experience these days is getting an X-ray.  Our son, Barry, needed two X-rays in connection with his trampoline accident, which made him a school celebrity.  Ellie, apparently, was jealous.  On the way to the Treatment Center, a ride of all of three miles, she must have asked me about getting an X-ray at least seven times.  I tried to assure her it might only be a bruise, and an X-ray might not be necessary.
 
That we have kept Ellie off the X-ray machine all this time is something of a miracle.  Within an hour of bedtime, she suffers one serious injury about every three days.  Just last week, she came downstairs after being tucked in, complaining that she thought her eye was bleeding.  If we gave medical attention to all these bedtime ailments, we would have to turn the game room into an ICU.

I was concerned by the time we arrived that the psychological scars of not getting an X-ray might prove more serious, and longer lasting, than the physical effect of simply turning around and leaving The Toe untreated.  Once we entered the parking lot, however, Ellie’s heart jumped (much like when we saw the gates at the Magic Kingdom last year), and we had crossed the medical Rubicon.  The radiological die had been cast.  No amount of hedging and comforting would heal the disappointment of not getting an X-ray.
 
Barry came along with us, for reasons I can’t fathom.  I think he was in attendance to make sure Ellie didn’t get TWO X-rays and jeopardize his lead in the X-ray race.  Just to be on the safe side, he was pressing against his sternum for any evidence of an unhealed break, which by now he knew could be detected only by an X-ray.
 
I need not have worried for Ellie’s fractured psyche.  This was the local Treatment Center, not the Den of Holistic and Spiritual Medicine.  It is close to my house and, with three children under the age of ten, they know my arrival by car exhaust alone.
 
My first tip that they had their finger on the (X-ray) button from Jump Street was the instant presence of an X-ray technician from the moment I told the receptionist why we came.  So anxious were they to get that ninety-dollar-per-frame camera popping that they dispensed with all applications and examination procedures.  Gunshot wounds don’t receive such prompt attention.  When I asked if they wanted to see my insurance information or ID, they all but said, “put it on the X-ray machine and we’ll take it through your daughter’s pocket.”
 
I was not allowed in the actual X-ray room with Ellie, of course.  The cost of those lead protective bibs is not covered by insurance.  In addition, with Ellie’s chatty disposition and endless imagined ailments, they probably took eight X-rays and a CAT scan.  They certainly wouldn’t want me inside bolluxing up that sweet deal.  After all, these X-ray technicians are not M.D.s and don’t have established practices, but they like the new and improved Lexus 300 as much as the next guy.
 
The good news, of course, was that Ellie had just a bruise.  Maybe Barry can retire as the family X-ray champion.  What am I saying?  With good insurance coverage and the kids’ martial arts years ahead of them, my only hope of keeping the family solvent is to line my barbecue apron in lead.

• No Related Post