Numbers

(continued from "Infinite Chances")

For years my parents bought what I call "old clunkers". We'd buy a car that seemed to only cost a few hundred bucks and then it would stall a few hundred times before dying. Then we'd get a new one. At one point we had two trucks sitting in our driveway; one was orange and the other was blue. The back of the orange one rubbed against the tires, causing damage. The engine of the blue one simply didn't work. So my father switched the backs of the trucks, leaving us with an orange truck with a blue back and visa versa. One of the doors on the orange front didn't open and close properly so - you guessed it - we switched it for a blue one. We let the city take away the one with the blue front and kept the other. Although it wasn't the most reliable vehicle, I loved that crazy truck.

But like many families from the central valley, we had moved here from the bay area and were a family of commuters. My father worked in San Francisco every night and all my doctors were still in the San Jose area. Finally my parents decided to buy a real car.

My mother is a simple woman who doesn't ask for much. When she and my father discussed what to purchase she had only two stipulations - she wanted it to be a four-door vehicle and to have heating and air conditioning. She didn't care about brand or anything else. My father left for work one night, and the plan was for him to purchase a car the next day. That night while he was working my mother woke up suddenly with what she considered a horrible realization - she had forgotten to tell him not to buy a red car. To her driving a red car past a police officer was like waving a red flag in front of a bull - you're just asking to get hit with a charge. Now keep in mind that cell phones were not as affordable at this time, we certainly didn’t own one - she could not text him with "NO RED PLEASE". There was nothing she could do but wait. Dad pulled up the next day in a red Chevy Cavalier. My mom just laughed.

Shortly after, my mother and I made a trip to Stanford for a second opinion about the spinal reconstruction recommended by Dr. Fountain. This was a drive my mother was more than familiar with, having driven me there regularly as a baby. Our trip was interrupted by an approaching siren. My mother had failed to see a speed limit sign that was slightly covered by trees and “the red car curse” was resulting in her very first ticket. She was embarrassed, took the ticket, and we continued on our way.

(*note: I called my mother a few minutes ago to confirm that it was Stanford that we had gone to for the second opinion. She insisted that we also went to UC San Francisco, but since I have no recollection of this visit we are going to skip it for now)

This visit was dramatically different from the one with Dr. Fountain. Dr. Fountain’s office was small and intimate. His wife was the secretary. There were stacks of highlights magazines to keep me entertained. The other staff, the smells – everything felt familiar and safe. Stanford didn’t feel anything like this. My mother and I waited in a white sterile room. Before meeting with the doctor we met with another gentleman who asked a bunch of questions. He had me stand up and placed his hand around my upper neck, and pulled up my chin. He was polite – but who the heck was he?

The “real” doctor came in next. He was all smiles and began to rattle off a lot of numbers, “I’ve worked with this many people like you, performed this many surgeries, have this many diplomas.” Whatever. I remember thinking “that’s nice, but you’ve never met ME.” After a few minutes he had us schedule an appointment for an MRI. When my mother called to speak to the doctor about the results, she was “greeted” by a snooty secretary who said they were not in yet, but when they were the doctor “might send her a note.”

My mother could not believe the coldness, and the lack of urgency. Every other doctor’s actions were conveying that this was an urgent matter. My spine was putting dangerous pressure on my lungs. The chest pains that I was feeling when I breathed in were increasing. I sat in the school office during P.E. because I had turned blue in front of my teacher. And this doctor “might send her a note”?

A few days later Dr. Fountain personally called my parents. He asked how they were feeling and what they had decided. There were no more questions in my parent’s minds as to who should perform the surgery – only one doctor had treated me like an individual, not a number. We asked Dr. Fountain to perform the surgery. He accepted, and then made a referral to a pediatric pulmonologist named Dr. Fox.

Together these two men would try and save my life.

(to be continued)