Long Story Short

So, the newtlet and I are sharing a cold. It's nice when your baby has your eyes, less nice when he has your phlegm, but we're powering through.

Internet, do you ever have that thing where you cough, and the phlegm comes halfway up your throat and stops, and it feels like you're going to gag on it, and suddenly you're scared you are going to vomit a stomach full of mucous and DayQuil all over your bedspread and you can either swallow that slug of phlegm, which you really don't want to do, or take a risk and keep on coughing, hoping you can get it all the way up before your gag reflex is fully activated?

No? Just me? OK, then, let's move on and pretend I never said anything.

So this particular illness hasn't required a trip to the doctor, but sitting here in my nest of Kleenex reminds me of a question I have been meaning to ask you, internet, about medical care and whatnot. Mr. Newt and I agree on most things (it's spooky, really), but this is one of the few occasions when we tend toward marital discord.

OK, so every time we are checking in at the ER or at Urgent Care, there's always a triage nurse who takes down our vital information, and she asks "What is the problem?" Now, it is my firm belief that she wants the shortest possible answer to this question. "Fever." "Coughing." Something she can write down on the form and move on.

In addition to saving her time, this will also save ME time, because I'm going to be asked to repeat the answer to this question at least twice more--to the examining nurse, and then eventually to the doctor. I would just as soon save the long version for the doctor, who is the only character in this little psychodrama with the authority to assign us an official diagnosis and prescribe drugs. Efficiency, people. I like efficiency.

Mr. Newt, on the other hand, usually launches a charm offensive with every single medical professional we encounter, and tells each nurse in line (as well as any kind of technician or P.A. we might meet) the whole story about how the baby woke up at 4 and we thought he felt warm, etc. etc. Long version all the way, with lots of personable parent stuff thrown in.

This is partly a regional thing. Mr. Newt and I are both Northerners living below the Mason-Dixon line, and he has adjusted better than I have to the cultural necessity of maintaining chit-chat with the guy who comes to fix the cable box, etc. When I'm doing my job, I consider it a kindness to be left alone, but locals have repeatedly informed me that this is an abnormal attitude toward human interaction around these parts. Leaving people alone is considered hostile, for some incomprehensible reason.

But even beyond the corn-pone Southern thing, Mr. Newt theorizes that most doctors are going to treat us like hypochondriac first-time parents, and we must set out from the beginning of each office visit to convince them that our reasons for seeking medical care are valid, or we are just going to get a pat on the arm and sent home with the assurance that our baby is just fine, pat pat. Mr. Newt sees the nurses as our first line of attack: they will somehow signal to the doctor whether we are to be taken seriously or not. Get the nurses on your side, he thinks, and the doctor will come in prepared to treat you well.

I tend to think the best way to get the nurses on our side is to be as efficient as possible so they can get their work done and go home to their children or their World of Warcraft or whatever they would rather be doing than listening to me describe the particular color of my kid's vomit.

So, internet, here's your chance to bring marital harmony back to Chez Newt. Who is right? It's me, isn't it? You know it is.