I heard last night Chuck Norris is hanging up the star. No more Walker, Texas Ranger. Now, this doesn't affect me in a direct sort of way. I've never seen more of that show than it takes to press a remote button, but I know someone who loves it.

My grandma's favorite show is Walker, Texas Ranger. This is a woman who usually doesn't feel comfortable unless she's talking, but she falls dead silent when this show is on. If you're at her house while it's on, you better be dead silent too. Grandma doesn't like distractions from her show. When she was staying with my aunt for a few months, they had to creep around the house and whisper to one another during the show for fear Grandma might get upset from an interruption. And it didn't matter a hooey if it was a rerun she's seen ten times already. She has never been like this with any other show and will happily chat through any programs, including the news.

No one in the family understands Grandma's fixation on this show. I don't even know that Grandma understands it herself. She doesn't like violence, often complaining about it being so abundant on television. She's not a martial arts fan. Her other favorite shows include the stereotypical fare: Matlock, Wheel of Fortune, Touched By An Angel. But then, she also catches Judge Judy every once in a while, so there's definitely a wild streak in her.

Walker always makes me think of my grandma and chuckle. I think it's so funny that she loves that show. I'm sad to see it go just because I know she will be. I hope there are reruns on a channel she gets. Grandma doesn't have cable, so her reception is limited. I know she would sure miss Mr. Norris, and I really don't want her filling the void with more Judge Judy.

I wish Mr. Norris would have been here last night to kick some doctor booty when I was on the phone with him. I decided to give the doctor a call after Booie screamed and cried off and on for three hours about how badly her knees, hips and back hurt her from the strep-induced arthritis. She was in such pain, and there was nothing I could do. I began crying out of frustration and worry. Booie screamed to go to the doctor, to make the pain go away, to make her legs stop moving when she wasn't moving them and finally, to please not let her die. That was the last straw.

First I called the nurse line through our insurance company to make sure I wasn't overreacting. The nurse listened to my daughter screaming in the background as I described the chain of events that led to my call. From her information, she said I should give the doctor a call, so I did.

Thirty-five minutes after I called the answering service, the doctor finally called me back. By this time, Boo had finally fallen asleep, so all was quiet, most likely making it seem like I was overreacting. After explaining the history of Booie's illness, the doctor asked me, "So what's the emergency?" Did I not just explain all that? But I tried to remain as composed as possible and explained that she was in severe pain and yelling, "I don't want to die," over and over again. Several times during the explanation, I would pause, waiting for him to say something. He never did. I said I didn't know if I should have her be seen again or what, to which he responded she had been seen just the day before, like things can't get worse once you've been to the doctor's office. I told him I was worried because the doctor we saw Wednesday had checked her heart for a murmur. He impatiently explained she was looking for signs of rheumatic fever, but that wouldn't be possible because Boo was being treated for the strep. Well, excuse me for not having a fucking medical degree, asshole! And you know, doctor's never make mistakes or anything. He finally told me to increase her dose of Motrin from one and a half teaspoons to two, and that I could give it to her every six hours rather than the eight I was told previously.

You know, this man is a pediatrician. What the hell is he doing in this field if he can't handle a scared, nervous parent who wants to help her daughter? I wasn't calling at two in the morning. It was 9:40 when I called, 10:15 when he called me back. Maybe he's a big Just Shoot Me or ER fan, but that doesn't give him an excuse to treat me like I was interrupting him because my kid sneezed. Hell, if I was interrupting him because my kid sneezed, he still should treat me with respect. It's his job to figure out what to do and to be professional about it. I don't take my daughter screaming and crying for three hours lightly. It's not normal, and she's never done anything like it before. I refuse to not try and do what I can to help her. That means calling the damn doctor after hours, because I didn't go to medical school, and I don't know that this is a known but not common symptom of strep. I just wanted to make my daughter better.

Just when I think maybe doctors aren't so bad, I run into a fucking asshole like this. I will never let my children be seen by this man, and if he's ever on call if I have to call after hours again, I'll just go to the emergency room. I'm debating talking to our regular pediatrician about it, but I don't know what kind of stink I might be stirring. I do think he should know that regardless how much I like him, I would switch practices rather than ever deal with that man in any way again. Parenting is hard enough work without having to deal with that.

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One Year Ago Today:

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