DATE: Thursday, September 11, 1997 TAG: 9709100698 SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B3 EDITION: FINAL COLUMN: THE HOME FRONT TYPE: MILITARY SOURCE: JACEY ECKHART LENGTH: 74 lines
The worst thing about living with a 7-year-old drama queen is that you never know when reality ends and the show begins. Especially when a doctor is involved.
One morning, the show began with a brilliantly staged performance of ``Why I Can't Walk the Dog'' and ended with Kelsey lying on the front lawn, clutching her ankle and screeching, ``MOOOOO-MMMMMMYYYYY! He's got my foot! My foot! My FOOOOT!''
I pried her fingers away from her wound and saw nothing but a thin red mark where the leash had been wrapped around her ankle. ``You'll live,'' I told her dryly.
But a week later, overnight, Kelsey's ankle swelled to muskmelon proportions and began oozing something that looked like honey mustard dressing. Disgusting. So I called for an appointment with our regular doctor at Tricare Prime.
I haven't seen him around here lately, the nurse said. I don't think he's working at this clinic anymore.
She offered us a 4:30 appointment with a doctor I had never heard of. I wasn't exactly surprised. Although we had been lured into Tricare Prime with promises of seeing the same primary care physician on request, the reality was that we had only seen our doctor twice in a dozen visits. The hodgepodge of other doctors and assistants we had seen we didn't particularly want to see again.
I looked at the ooze on Kelsey's leg again and knew that she definitely needed a doctor. I reluctantly accepted the appointment.
We showed up on time and checked in. Nine storybooks, four pictures, two games of Superball and one half-balanced checkbook later, Dr. Generic arrived in the examining room. ``Who is the patient?'' she asked, as she watched Sammy dive for the Superball.
``Ummm, she is,'' I stammered, hurriedly stuffing my wallet into my purse while Kelsey scrambled onto the table. Dr. Generic prodded Kelsey's swollen leg gingerly with the tips of her rubber-gloved fingers.
``This cut is infected!'' she scolded, as if we had been in for infections a hundred times. ``Don't you know you should clean a wound with soap and water? Don't you have any Neosporin?''
I blushed. My children stared. The doctor was yelling at Mommy.
``B-b-but it wasn't even a cut at first,'' I stuttered. ``Just a red mark.''
``You should have put a Band-Aid on it. And Neosporin,'' she repeated.
I cringed in embarrassment, feeling like the worst mother who had ever lived.
Dr. Generic eyed a summer's worth of bruises on Kelsey's shin and scowled at me. ``How exactly did this happen?''
While babbling an explanation, I wished fervently that I had paid the $300 deductible and 20 percent co-payments so we could see a private pediatrician regularly. But we are a one-income family in a two-income world. We must live frugally. Maximizing on Navy benefits like free health care is part of our plan.
Unfortunately, it is a part of our plan that isn't working like it used to. When we had Champus Prime in California, we had no deductible, $5 co-payments, and a good working relationship with a private doctor who treated us with respect and looked over our file before he entered the room.
With Tricare Prime, we haven't seen any one doctor frequently enough to build a working relationship. Our doctor isn't always, or even usually, available. He is busy seeing an unending line of faceless patients as quickly and efficiently as possible.
``I'm going to put you on crutches,'' Dr. Generic said, pushing Kelsey's foot away. ``If you don't stay off that foot you could lose it.''
Kelsey paled. This was too much drama even for her. I silently gathered our things, eager to end this medical one-night stand.
The people who run this program probably think that not seeing the same physician regularly is no big deal, a nothing, a little red dent in our benefits. But I walked out the door of Tricare Prime that day thinking that it is a problem that may grow to muskmelon proportions in a very short time.
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