Parents are meant to protect their children. Many discover this drive early in their parenting, which leads them to do things that once they never thought they could do. If you’re naturally the kind of person who can claw the eyes out of someone who crosses you, then this instinct is easy to handle. On the other hand, if you’re like me (i.e.: someone who would eat a meal served to him at a restaurant, even if it’s not what you ordered, just to prevent causing a stir) this can prove an uncomfortable and challenging role.
That’s why I’m lucky to have Vampmommy. Not that she enjoys opening up a can of parental whoop-ass, but when you’re dealing with the complexities and idiocies of the medical establishment, this skill is a vital tool — as the past two days has shown.
Really, the whole mess of getting VB’s MICKEY button replaced boiled down to two hospital departments that made decisions based on information they didn’t have (they hadn’t even seen my son), and never communicated with one another on the nature of the procedure that needed to be done to fix the problem. In the end, 24 hours was wasted sitting around watching Vampboy not eat, while Vampmommy had to use her limited emotional resources to set everyone straight and keep people doing the jobs they should have done all along.
In a metaphorical sense, it looked something like this:
Yes, every parent reaches a place where they must done a one-ton robotic lift suit and pound evil into oblivion. When you’re finished, you are satisfied that you did your duty as a parent. It doesn’t feel good necessarily, but it comes with the territory.
And Vampboy? In this case, we got what we needed, and VB is now at home with a slightly sore tummy, but a brand new MICKEY. Meanwhile, patient services will be in touch with a few key people to ensure the tomfoolery of the past 48 hours doesn’t happen again.