So we waited. And waited. And waited. Remember, we're in socialized medicine land here so there was no speed dial to Dr. Cowboy with this epiphany. At our next CF clinic, which happened to be a painful three months down the pipe, I put it right out on the table for the good doctor in my Lone Ranger (it's actually more Tonto than Lone Ranger) Spanish, "There'sthiswebsiteputtogetherbytheCFFandHopkinsthatsaysthekidsmightnothaveCFwhaddyathink?"
|Well, she just may have been |
on to something.
I nodded, wide eyed. He didn't laugh at us or call us crazy. He didn't hmph about us being in denial. He listened. And it appeared that he too was unsettled about our Cystic Fibrosis. Maybe not as unsettled as I but unsettled enough to order a CAT scan for Charlie and another one for Lola.
The can of worms had been officially opened; a lot would be riding on the results of the upcoming CAT scan, at least in my mind. If it came back clean it might mean a whole new way of approaching and ultimately managing our CF. If it came back showing evidence of the disease it would be reliving the diagmosis all over again, a chapter in our lives that I was none too keen to revisit.
My walk out to the parking lot that day was both a half ton lighter and a half ton heavier.
All in the same clinic visit.