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.
Uh-huh.
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 scorching hot that summer and nerves were frayed. “No more questions,” she barked over the hospital bed when she finally arrived from the Hamptons, a long two days after Savannah been admitted to the hospital.
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 find my mommy voice. I realized she was using Savannah’s case as a learning opportunity, so dumped her.
Lipstick and Playdates 