Your call is important to us. Please don’t hang up.
Your call is important to us. Please don’t hang up.
Your call is important to us. Please—“Nurse Line! Hello!”
“Hi. We’re having an H1N1 clinic in our area tomorrow, but my daughter has a stuffy nose. Will she still be able to get the vaccine?”
“You’ll have to speak with your doctor about that.”
“But it’s Saturday. The office is closed.”
“You’ll have to speak with your doctor about that.”
“I just don’t want to stand in line for five hours and then get turned away.”
“Some will and some won’t! You’ll have to speak with your doctor about that.”
“OK. Thank you. Bye.”
I reach for the telephone book. Tim asks if I am just going to keep calling around until I get the answer I want to hear. But I am nervous about the vaccine. I’m not sure what that answer would even be. I put the book away.
The next morning, her voice is still grating in my ear. Speak with your doctor about that. Hey, sometimes when the office is closed, they patch you through to a nurse.
“Hello, Nurses’ Helpline. Adele speaking. How may I help you today?” Adele’s accent is thick as honey. They must outsource these calls.
“Hi. We’re having an H1N1 clinic in our area today, but my daughter has a stuffy nose. Will she still be able to get the vaccine?”
“Oh, I think that clinic is over. A doctor told me that.”
“Um, OK. But if they did still have it, could she get the vaccine?”
“Why don’t you tell me her symptoms.”
“She just has a stuffy nose.”
“Well, it sounds like she may already have the flu. Maybe there’s some medicine she can take right now. Why don’t I ask you some questions and see. Is she making eye contact?”
“Yes. She just has a stuffy nose.”
“OK. And does she have rapid breathing?”
“That’s her singing in the next room! She really just has a stuffy nose.”
“And what about a stifle? Do you know what a stifle is?”
“No.”
“Something to do with the epiglotis. Ask her if her ears hurt.”
“‘Sometimes,’ she says.”
“OK. So when would you like to get that checked out? Later today?”
“Well, it’s Sunday. The office is closed.”
“Hmmm. It’s not letting me book you an appointment.”
“Yes, the office is closed.”
“Well, as long as you have it checked within twenty-four hours, you should be OK.”
“So . . . you think we should give the flu clinic a miss?”
“Well! I don’t know about that . . . They might still give her the vaccine!”
At noon we show up at the clinic and, to Sarah’s dismay, they breeze us right in. Done. We soothe ourselves with chocolate munchkins, and hope for the best. She does not break out in spots, or grow an extra head. But nine days later, it’s clear she’s got the flu. I decide to try my luck one more time.
“1-800-Ask-a-Nurse!”
“Hi, my daughter seems to have swine flu, and I’m wondering what we should do.”
“Oh, the poor thing. Let me take your information, and we can talk about some things that you might try.”
Ten minutes later, I melt popsicles for Sarah to drink. Tim buys some honey she can take for her cough. We set up the cool mist humidifier, run it in her room all night. And I realize that in my anxious state, I just wanted to feel heard.
