Monday, late afternoon, I stood outside in the Portland not-quite-rain and mist. I stood amongst purple and white flowers, their heads nodding downwards, some of their green foliage invariably crushed underfoot. I faced the digital telephone box, weapons of choice in hand: needle-nosed pliers in the right, Phillips head screwdriver in the left. Adahlia stood behind me, on the gravel path, fingering a small stone she’d picked up. There was a bolt that needed removed, and a screw, and then some latching mechanism, and then maybe I could find a way to unhook the thick cable that came out, wound around our yard, and attached itself to a complicated coil of wires in a utility box that seemed more like an open snake pit.

We don’t have digital phone. Never did. But this wire was placed by Frontier months ago, over a year ago, until a few days into their internet service I realized I’d made an error. We switched to Comcast for internet and Frontier’s wire was never buried or removed. I had other fish to fry. But now we are moving, and something needs done about the wire.

I’d been on the phone all day between the two companies. Frontier refused to remove or bury it because they weren’t my provider. Comcast refused to touch it because it wasn’t their equipment. They finally suggested I just remove it myself, if I could do it without electrocuting myself. After taking a look at the wires balled up in the box in the ground, and realizing I could not detach our wire from the rest of the tangle, I figured I’d approach the problem from the opposite end, and try to disconnect the cable from the box attached to our house.

But it was locked.

I partially unwound the screw, but it mysteriously stopped turning and then I couldn’t remove it. Using the pliers, I twisted and removed the bolt. I tugged at the door. Nothing budged. I tugged again. Nada. And that was it.

Yup, that was it. I pulled out my phone and called Frontier. Andres, located in their Texas office, picked up.

“I am standing in the rain with my 18 month old daughter and scissors in my hand,” I seethed. “I have called you and comcast both, and gotten nothing but the run-around. I’ve had it. Your company put this digital phone cable in my yard. In 30 seconds, I am going to cut the wire, unless you do something about it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “let me order you a technician.”

So Adahlia and I went back inside and I pondered my second big problem of the day: how to get Adahlia’s pediatrician to agree to prick her finger to test her hemoglobin (Hb).

You see, the hospital cannot do finger pricks – they only have phlebotomists who draw blood from veins. This is not only more painful, it also increases the risk of making her veins no longer good (after awhile, veins give out and you can’t draw from them anymore), which increases the risk of needing a port to give her the transfusions.

For obvious reasons, I do not want an IV port placed in my daughters chest unless we absolutely must.

Adahlia was 3 weeks out from her last transfusion. She had only gone 3 weeks between transfusions for the last 2 iterations. I needed to get her blood checked but I didn’t want to waste a poke if we didn’t need a transfusion. I called her ped’s office, but after discussing my request with the doctor, the nurse called me back to say we’d need to make a full appointment, because the doctor wanted to do a check of her: he was concerned and wanted to rule out sepsis.

I groaned.

“She doesn’t have sepsis,” I replied. “She’s not sick. We just need to know her Hb levels so we can know if she needs a transfusion. In and out. We don’t even need to see the doctor; we don’t see anybody but the phlebotomists when we go to the hospital for a Hb check.”

The nurse said she’d talk to him again.

Then she called back to say the doctor was declining our request, saying that he didn’t want to get involved.

I nearly snapped. Didn’t want to get involved? Believe me, lady, there are times I’d rather not be involved, but I am! We’re involved! Too bad!

I didn’t snap though. Because I didn’t really believe it. This was Adahlia’s pediatrician after all.

“Are you sure? This will save her so much pain… A finger prick she doesn’t even feel… And it’s so quick… ”

Silence. Then, in a low voice, the nurse apologized, and repeated that he didn’t want to get involved. “I’m really sorry,” she said, “I really am.”

At that point, my eyes began to water. How could people be so cruel? And I nearly fired our pediatrician.

But we were already having all sorts of difficulties with Adahlia’s new health care. With the new health law taking effect on the 1st of the year, Adahlia’s Medicaid provider switched, and so all her appointments and medication now needed new authorizations. Id been going back and forth with her hospital and insurance and pharmaceutical companies for days, trying to iron everything out. To switch out her pediatrician now would be disastrous.

Ok, I thought. What is the equivalent of threatening to cut the line when it comes to a doctor?

If compassion and reason wouldn’t work, what approach would? I was obviously using the wrong one.

(How many times in the last 18 months have I discovered that compassion and reason will not work with many people? Too many.)

Then, I remembered how the hematology nurses had approved this plan of mine, and given me their fax number so that the results of the finger prick could be faxed to the hospital.

It was after hours , but I called and left this message at the pediatrician’s office:

“Hi, this is Adahlia’s mom again. I just needed to call one more time and see if Dr ___ would reconsider. I believe I forgot to mention this, but the hospital is actually in favor of this plan, they’ve approved it because it will save her both pain and trauma to her often-poked veins.”

Pause.

“We’d really like to keep Dr ___ ‘on the team,’ so please call me back as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Eureka. The next morning, the nurse called back, congratulating me on my persistence and saying we could set up a finger prick that very day, provided they received a fax from the hospital with instructions.

In a snap, I arranged this with the hematology nurses. After all, the instructions were not rocket science: prick finger when requested, possibly every 2-3 weeks. Test Hb levels. If 8.0 or below, refer to hospital for transfusion.

Done.

And you want to know the best part? Of course you do.

Adahlia didn’t blink at the finger prick. Didn’t appear to feel a thing. And her Hb was 8.7. Which meant no transfusion necessary, which that we really did save her from unnecessary pain, and her veins from one unnecessary puncture.

Chalk up one more victory for mama bear!

Lesson learned? Well, that’s a complicated one, because in today’s modern age, there’s a lot of people talking about doing stuff, and very little ever actually getting done.

For example, the digital phone cable is still lying unburied on my yard.

Adahlia is nearly out of exjade, the medication that removes the excess iron from her blood, and the new pharmacy we have to go through still hasn’t called me to set up delivery of it, even though the hematology nurses and I have been on the phone with our new insurance company and this pharm company for over a week, as I’ve been desperately trying to arrange a refill before she runs out.

Which she will. This weekend.

Sigh.

So, my dears, a question: what’s the equivalent of cutting the wire, when it comes to a pharmaceutical company?