We've been working with a new homeopath since September or so, Dr. G., out in Westmont. At first I really liked him, and Paula LOVED him. In the office he seemed mellow, personable, thoughtful. But whenever Paula is sick and I call his cell phone with an urgent question, he is so irritable and almost rude.

Yesterday I called because Paula had insisted so heartily that she was sick that I kept her home from school. Actually took her home after taking her to school - ugh - so I wanted to see if I needed to give her some medication. His office is closed Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I called the cell phone number.

Dr. G. picked up and I launched into my description of Paula's symptoms. He cut me off. "I can't talk right now, I'm in the car. I'll call you later."

"Okay, sorry," I said, feeling a little like Ellen in Slings and Arrows. Sure, I should have asked him if it was a good time, but the way he said it you would think I was a collections agent screaming threats at him.

Well, he didn't call me back yesterday, and I just left a message at the office to please have him call me. I really liked him at the outset, and the remedy he's given Paula has been very helpful, but I think I'm on my way to seeking another doctor for Paula.

Okay, that's not quite accurate, but it's not totally off-base either.

I have been sick with two excruciatingly itchy rashes this past week. One a bacterial rash on my back, face, neck and one earlobe, and the other a fungal rash on my front. Upper front. You do the math.

I woke up with the awful itching on Wednesday of last week. By Thursday it was KILLING me. I think to call what I was experiencing "agony" only barely describes it. I went to the doctor.

The doctor diagnosed my large fungal front rash and my dime-sized-and-smaller itchy spots as bacterial. I told him I would rather go topical for an antibacterial (I'm not good at pill regimens that are more than once a day), and the oral anti-fungal he said I would have to take for SIX WEEKS.

Um, I think recent stressful events have weakened my immune system. Just a little.

That was last week. By Tuesday of this week the bacterial rash had spread to cover an area the size of a dollar, with outcroppings, on my lower back. The anti-fungal ointment doc prescribed was making a dent in the front itching, but I had 1) no oral antibiotics, because I said I didn't want them, and 2) no oral antifungals because my insurance doesn't cover them!!!

I was aware that the oral antifungal required pre-authorization from my doctor, because the nice people at the pharmacy informed me of that when I tried to get the prescription filled last Thursday. They put in a call to the doctor, the doctor said he'd take care of it. They said it would go through in a day or two.

Yeah.

Monday rolled around, still no approval. Tuesday rolled around, still no approval. I went to the doc and asked for oral antibiotics and a 7-day script for the anti-fungal, for which I would pay myself. Wednesday? Nothing. This morning I got back on the horn and started calling them all, explaining I NEED THIS PRESCRIPTION FILLED, you sadistic "care managers" of the "managed care" system.

My doctor's office just called me back to say that my insurance company has approved a month of the anti-fungal. I guess if you add the week I bought out-of-pocket to the month that insurance will cover, I'll get five weeks of meds which I dearly and sincerely hope will be enough to rid me of the angry itch.

For now, the back itching has calmed down to what I would call only moderately severe. The front itch has roared back now that I'm taking antibacterials. So if you see me crazy-eyed, desperately scratching my braless chest, please, don't judge me. I was once itch-free, just like you.

Joel has been telling me for six months to a year that my hearing is getting worse. I don't know, I think he's always trying to talk to me from the other room, or talk as he's walking away from me, or muttering, or all of the above.

Anyway, my current unpaid vocation is getting everything checked out that needs to get checked out, taking all my vitamins and meds, going to therapy, seeing my psychiatrist, getting a massage when I need it, just generally taking care of myself in a way that I have neglected to do for a couple of years (at least) until now.

So last time Joel had to repeat something I couldn't hear, I said, "That does it! I'm getting my ears checked." My appointment is today, in about an hour.

If anything, I'm pretty sure it's just a mild loss. But the prospect of finding out I'm losing my hearing heartily amuses me. We just never know what's coming next, do we?

My lovely daughter. Bright, inquisitive, explorative. She just wanted to know what those berries tasted like.

Saturday afternoon we went to visit Marylu and family. Paula played with the kids and Marylu and I talked. I got to hold the sleeping baby - bliss! Then Marylu's kids came to tell me Paula was hitting, and Paula threw a fit about going to the thinking chair, so we had to leave. It was about time for dinner and bed anyway.

So we went out the front door and the kids spilled out after us. Marylu and I drew out the last of our conversation as the kids ran around on the grass. Paula ran to the side gate to greet their dog, T-Bone. When I looked at her next, she was putting something in her mouth from the shrub growing next to the side gate.

"Paula!" I ran over to her. "Spit it out! Spit that out!" She spat out purple skins and I swept her mouth with my finger but pulled out nothing more than purple juice. I didn't know what it was, but I told Marylu I wasn't worried about it.

"I'll just keep an eye on her," I said. We went home, she played outside for a little while, we ate dinner and she went to bed.

In the morning she seemed fine and I forgot about the berries. After breakfast I made her take a much-needed shower. As she got out, I wrapped her in a big blue towel, and she leaned her whole body against me. I picked her up and carried her to the bean bag chair in her room. We sat for a while and cuddled. Sometimes she would sit up, then collapse back onto me.

Never one to turn down a little cuddle from my daughter, I sat there with her for quite a while. Finally I decided to get her dressed so she and Daddy could go out and have fun while I watched TV - it was that time of the month.

I got comfortable in front of the TV and Paula came over and laid down with me. Okay. I called to Joel to remind him that he was taking Paula Elsewhere for a couple of hours. It was a gorgeous, clear day with low humidity and temperatures in the low 80's or so. Perfect for the park, which I suggested.

Daddy came over and got Paula's attention.

"Want to go to the park?" He lifted those bushy eyebrows and gave her the full-force enthusiasm look.

"No," she leaned against me. "I want to watch TV."

Um, okay.

Daddy tried again.

"Want to go to McDonalds?"

"No," she repeated. "I want to watch TV."

He lured her with ice cream, popcorn and a trip to Guitar Center, but she wasn't budging. I wondered who she was and what she had done with my child.

Then I remembered the berries.

I went to Google and typed in "poisonous urban berries." This (http://tinyurl.com/yrlea5) is what came up next to a photo of the same plant in Marylu's yard:

"All parts of poke are poisonous. Berries are less toxic than the root but have poisoned children (Duke 2001). Fatalities have been reported in children after eating poke berries (LeStrange 1977)."

Okay.

I saw that pokeweed is in the genus _Phytolacca_, same as a homeopathic remedy I have, so I gave Paula a dose of the remedy and called poison control.

"Your daughter is showing signs of pokeweed toxicity and needs to go to the emergency room."

You would think I would be worried at this point, but in fact I was just resigned to the whole thing. Yet another trip to the ER. They seem to be curative for her: as soon as we get to the ER, she perks right up, no matter how badly she was doing before we left home. The doctors reassure me I'm better safe than sorry. But still, I get a little tired of taking her to the ER just to be told she's fine.

Well, she was fine. I suspect it was the homeopathic remedy that did the trick. And thank goodness. It didn't hit me until a day or two later that the weakness and lethargy she was feeling may well have been the result of heart block caused by the pokeweed. That's when I got a little freaked out.

All's well that ends well, though, right? Now if we can just help her get over the nightmare she had while poisoned and leave this whole thing in the past.

Yesterday I went to my first therapy session with Debbie, the new therapist. She was lovely, attentive, asked good questions and made good comments. I'm looking forward to working with her.

The problem lies in my HMO's limitation on the number of mental health care visits allowed under my policy. I have sixteen left for the year, out of twenty normally allotted, since I had four visits with the psychiatrist.

Between the check-ups with the shrink and visits to the therapist, I'm not likely to make those sixteen visits stretch to the end of the year. But a loophole exists.

By law, HMO's have to offer more mental health care visits - sixty, to be precise - to people who are Seriously Mentally Ill. I figured that I was unlikely to get that extension, because we all know I'm not seriously mentally ill. Right? But I thought maybe I could finagle it, if I put my mind to it.

So after discussing this whole issue with Debbie, we agreed that she would look into the Seriously Mentally Ill exemption. Then she pulled out the printout from the insurance company.

"Oh!" She said, "It looks like you have the sixty sessions."

Okay. That means the psychiatrist put down some kind of diagnosis for me that fits the legal or bureaucratic definition of serious mental illness.

I don't know quite what to make of it, whether I'm lucky or unlucky, but I'm grateful to have the extra sessions.

I just never thought I'd be happy about being seriously mentally ill.

UPDATE: Now I don't know what's going on. The shrink says there extra sessions did not get approved; the psychiatrist says I was approved for only one. I'm totally confused. I love you, managed care!

Sunday morning Paula woke up, sat up, started coughing a threw up. While this is not terribly unusual for Paula when she has a chest cold, this came after about three weeks of her having a cough. I looked at my schedule: Kit was set to arrive later that morning, Monday through Wednesday were booked solid with freelance translating work (yay!). I knew if Paula was going to see a doctor, it would be immediately. I packed her into the car and went to Emergency.

Waiting for triage Paula grinned and sang songs, provoking reluctant smiles from the slouched and miserable people sitting with us. And then she would turn to me and say, clear as day, "I don't want to see the doctor. I don't want to." Wrinkling her nose and shaking her head, she might just as casually told me that she doesn't like melted cheese. This also provoked smiles from the waiting sickies.

But the ER was pretty empty and we got taken to a bed quickly. While we idled on the vinyl mattress and white sheet, Paula chattered and pulled dolls, a stuffed cat, her beaded purse and sippy cup out of her little cross-merchandising Dora backpack.

A man's deep voice came from beyond the white curtain. "Hello? How old is your little girl?" He sounded weak.

"Three," I answered.

"Her voice is so happy. It's really helping me with my pain."

"Yeah, she does that for me, too." I smiled.

We chatted a little more with the disembodied voice whose owner suffered from diabetes and gout until the gray-haired doctor came to examine Paula. She reiterated her objection to being seen by the doctor, crying and flailing as I wrapped arms and legs around her so he could look in her ears. She quieted and held me tightly as he listened to her heart and lungs.

"Her chest sounds clear," he said, "but with her history of pneumonia, let's get a chest X-ray to be on the safe side."

I signed to Paula, "You're going to have an X-ray. Remember what that's like?" She had one last in September, I think.

REMEMBER, she signed. X-RAY.

The nurse with the doe eyes and Curious George scrubs led us to the X-ray waiting area. In a few minutes the technician invited us in.

By this time hours had passed since our 6 a.m. wake-up and light breakfast. Paula was tired, hungry and more than a little stressed out. She vacillated between crying and hugging me and taking a deep breath to attempt this new exercise of standing on the stool facing a square and spreading out her arms. The first time she got into position, she moved and messed up the shot. Second time I suggested she hug the frame, and the x-ray was a success.

I applauded her victory and she grinned, heading for the door.

"Uh, we're not done." The technician confirmed that we needed the side view.

"One more, okay sweetie?" Hearing this, Paula started to cry. She wrapped arms around her neck and wouldn't let go.

I talked with her about how this was the last thing, how after this nobody would poke at her anymore. If she would just stand still for a few seconds with her arms and chin up, we would be finished. I repeated our shared medical mantra, for use in earwax removal, taking earmold impressions and all other unpleasantness. "Practice being brave."

"Be like Hawkgirl, okay, sweetie? Practice being brave like Hawkgirl."

Then it hit me.

"Paula, how does Hawkgirl fly? Like this!" I raised my arms over my head and looked up a-la Superman. "Fly like Hawkgirl!"

And my little girl took a deep breath. She raised her chin and looked at the ceiling. She raised her arms and stood there like three feet of solid resolve.

The technician, who had combined a Zen-like patience with kind words for both of us, leapt through the door where he pushed the button and took the shot. "Take a deep breath!" he shouted out. I signed it to Paula but she didn't even look at me, just kept staring at the ceiling and flying away.

We got the X-ray. Paula collapsed into my arms and I squeezed her till she wiggled out of my arms. Running out into the hall she jumped up and down, arms still held high and face glowing. "Hawkgirl! Hawkgirl! Brave!" She held her fists at the level of her shoulders, exulting.