When Dr. G., Savannah’s first endocrinologist, and I parted, the tension was palpable. She obviously wanted me – the note taking mother – to just take her sick child and GO, but her massive ego interfered.
“I told Dr. Jacobs you were going for a second opinion, and he told me, ‘Maria, she’ll never find a doctor as good as you,’” she boasted within earshot of the teaching fellows.
I remained quiet, fearing we’d meet again. And we did. She moved two blocks from my apartment.
“I’ll never forget your case,” she always says at our run-ins, poking for an update.
Rehashing the summer 2005 with the haughty South American doctor is comparable to a vet’s flashback. There are no good memories.
I begged. I pleaded. Had a damn near nervous breakdown in her office. Still, she ignored the warning signs – chronic low blood sugar, jaundice, and low thyroid – until a near fatal seizure landed my five-week-old in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit and they rigged her head-to-toes with wires.
It was a scorching hot that summer and nerves were frayed. “No more questions,” she barked over the hospital bed when she finally arrived from the Hamptons two days later.
Then, beaten down and scared, I didn’t have the confidence to tell Dr. G to f— herself. But, two months later, when Savannah was officially diagnosed, I was starting to gain my mommy voice. I realized she was using the case as a learning opportunity, so dumped her.