The First Whispers of Worry: Andrew’s Mysterious Symptoms

For the past few months, Andrew, our vibrant four-year-old, had been intermittently complaining of headaches. More unsettling were his bewildered assertions, “Mommy, my bed is twirling.” These symptoms, though sporadic, sparked a quiet anxiety in my heart, a primal parental instinct signaling that something wasn’t quite right.

Our initial visit to the pediatrician was met with a degree of medical uncertainty. The doctor, after a thorough examination, confessed, “I can’t pinpoint any obvious reason for these symptoms. Let’s monitor him closely for a few weeks to see if they persist or escalate.” We returned home, vigilant, meticulously observing Andrew for any patterns or triggers that might explain his episodes, hoping they would simply disappear.

Weeks passed, and while the symptoms didn’t disappear, they didn’t dramatically worsen either. The gentle nudge from Andrew’s preschool teacher, who mentioned his ongoing complaints about his head, finally prompted our second visit. This time, the pediatrician’s demeanor was different, more grave. The conversation that followed was a blur of medical jargon, punctuated by words that struck terror into my very soul.

Doc: “I believe we should proceed with a brain MRI because blah-blah-blah… it could be a TUMOR, blah-blah… involving the BRAIN, blah-blah… potentially requiring SURGERY, blah-blah… a possible TUMOR.”

Each mention of “tumor” reverberated like a hammer blow, shattering our composure. There were undoubtedly more “blahs” mixed into that conversation, likely interspersed with a few silent, internal “OH SHITs” from my end. But in that moment of profound shock, keeping a precise record felt impossible, overshadowed by the terrifying implications.

Navigating the Medical Bureaucracy: A Labyrinth of Frustration

In the immediate aftermath of that devastating conversation, I entered a state of emotional autopilot. Armed with a stack of lab orders, a handful of hastily scribbled phone numbers, and a barrage of daunting medical terms, I embarked on the arduous task of arranging specialists’ appointments, lab work, insurance approvals, and the crucial MRI. The sheer volume of tasks felt overwhelming, yet a desperate urgency propelled me forward.

Our insurance plan, being tailored for the self-employed, proved to be notoriously stringent – a stark reality for small business owners seeking affordable healthcare options. I spent countless hours on the phone, trapped in an endless loop of automated menus, hold music, and disorienting transfers. To be fair, this wasn’t entirely the insurance company’s fault; they operate by a strict set of rules, which I had, in fact, agreed to in writing. Amidst the chaos, our nurse case manager emerged as a beacon of genuine helpfulness, guiding me through some of the more convoluted processes.

However, the primary hurdle remained Andrew’s doctor’s office, which held the exclusive authority to approve all the necessary tests and appointments. And it seemed they treated that critical “key” like a hot potato, constantly passing it around their office, each time just out of my reach. At noon, “Rick” supposedly held the key, but alas, he was out to lunch. Call back later. Then it was “Nurse Kathy,” who, with an almost theatrical underhanded toss, passed it to the “office manager” just seconds before her two-minute break. Leave a message. The “office manager Stacy” then dribbled it down to center field, faking right, then left, before shooting it towards the basket, only for it to be intercepted by “what’s-her-name the receptionist.” Call back. Oh, and if you haven’t guessed, my knowledge of basketball is non-existent. The whole process was simply infuriating.

The MRI Ordeal: A Child’s Terror and a Parent’s Helplessness

After what felt like an eternity, I finally secured a brain MRI appointment at the hospital for Tuesday morning. But the bureaucratic nightmare wasn’t over. On Monday afternoon, a bumbling nurse called, delivering the news of a “scheduling goof.” The next available slot, she calmly informed me, was in four weeks. “Would we mind waiting?” she asked casually.

My blood ran cold. “Hmmm… it’s just a possible FUCKING TUMOR in my kid’s head. What do you think???” The absurdity of the question, given the gravity of the situation, pushed me to my breaking point. After a furious, albeit contained, outburst, they miraculously “found” an opening for 7 AM sharp the very next morning. The relief was immense, quickly followed by renewed anxiety.

We arrived promptly at 7 AM. We checked in. We waited. And waited. And waited. An hour and a half later, still waiting. My heart ached for Andrew, who, under strict instructions, hadn’t been allowed a drop of fluid or anything to eat since midnight. “A little sip of water please, Mommy?” he pleaded, his small voice hoarse with thirst. My throat tightened with helplessness.

Sigh. I approached the desk, only to be met with another administrative hurdle. “Oh, I’m sorry. We’re missing some crucial paperwork from his file. We’ll have to wait until your doctor’s office opens at 8:30 AM to get the paper faxed over.” Sigh. And then, in the whirlwind of hospital activity, we were simply forgotten. Sigh. (At that moment, I found myself wishing desperately for either a hefty dose of Valium or a bag of petrified Brussels sprouts to hurl at the staff.)

Finally, Andrew’s name was called. My precious little boy, usually so brave, was terrified. Scared of blood, scared of needles, scared of the mask they would place over his mouth to send him “night-night” for a while so they could perform the brain MRI. His fear was palpable; he started shaking uncontrollably, screaming, crying, and hyperventilating. He recoiled from the doctors, the nurses, the sterile instruments. All he wanted was to go home, to hide safely in his bed.

The doctor on duty quickly administered a “cousin of Valium” to make him sleepy, woozy, and more cooperative – just enough to get him to lie still for the monitoring equipment and the dreaded sedation mask. I’m still surprised they didn’t offer me a whiff of the stuff. Though I was profoundly tempted to wrestle that mask away from the nurse and take a few deep, long breaths before security inevitably intervened, I was too much of a chicken. I stayed with Andrew, holding his hand, whispering reassurances, until he was fully sedated, then I was gently escorted out.

I have no recollection of how long I sat in that sterile waiting room. The minutes stretched into an eternity, each tick of the clock amplifying my dread. I checked in with the front desk repeatedly, paranoid they might forget us again. That waiting room was a special kind of hell. Not only was the television inexplicably stuck on some mind-numbing political channel, but my mind was relentlessly cycling through every conceivable worst-case scenario, each more terrifying than the last.

After what felt like an impossibly long time, a nurse approached me with a simple, almost nonchalant statement: “Andrew is awake. Come with me.” She led me towards a room where another nurse was cradling a small, shrieking, thrashing child. The sound was unfamiliar, primal, and deeply disturbing. This couldn’t be my child. I know Andrew’s cries; this was something entirely different.

But it was Andrew. I had never heard such a cry before because, as a mother, I dedicate my life to shielding my children from harm, hurt, and suffering. This was, undeniably, the first time Andrew experienced such profound terror. It took nearly half an hour of gentle persuasion and bribery – probably half the hospital’s entire supply of Spiderman stickers – to calm his thrashing body and soothe his heart-wrenching cries. We eventually wobbled out of that hospital, Andrew’s legs still unsure beneath him as the lingering effects of the sedation slowly dissipated.

And then, the excruciating wait for the results began anew.

The Unfathomable Relief and Lingering Frustration: A $5,000 Diagnosis

I found myself praying to every deity imaginable, even Buddha, that this time, they wouldn’t forget about us. That afternoon, the phone finally rang. It was Andrew’s primary pediatrician, the “blah-blah-blah TUMOR” doctor.

“MRI came back fine. Andrew’s brain is normal. Maybe he just needs glasses. We should get him an eye exam.”

The silence that followed on my end was deafening. It was a vacuum of disbelief, relief, and then a slow, burning anger that swelled from deep within. This portion of my initial blog post had to be heavily edited due to the extreme foul language that flowed freely from my lips. My outrage was boundless.

Excuse me, but a FUCKING EYE EXAM? Let’s pause for a moment and consider the profound irony and insult of that suggestion. Does this sequence of events make any rational sense?

Ahem.

What do you honestly think should have happened first? A simple $200 eye exam that might have solved everything, or a harrowing, terrifying $5,000 brain MRI that traumatized Andrew so severely he’s suffered from nightmares every single night since?

The question hung in the air, thick with indignation. Hmmm… can someone hand me that tennis racket? Because I think I might just have a bunch of petrified Brussels sprouts conveniently stuffed in my left pocket, ready for target practice. The feeling of being put through such an ordeal, only to be told it was likely a minor vision issue, was truly maddening.

Finding Solace: Family, Fun, and Future Aspirations in Los Angeles

We’re currently in the bustling city of Los Angeles, so Andrew’s eye exam will have to wait until we return home. But I must admit, I think Andrew would look rather distinguished in glasses. For now, these are merely plastic play goggles from this toy, but they certainly give him a smart, scholarly air.

Despite the recent emotional upheaval, we’re genuinely doing great. The boys are having an absolute blast at PoPo (my mom) and GongGong’s (my dad) house. Their favorite new activity? Jumping on OPF (Other People’s Furniture)! They’ve discovered that nice, new, expensive leather couches offer a distinctly higher bounce and a faster lift, much to their delight and our parents’ playful dismay. This trip, intended to be a family visit, has become an unexpected haven of joyous distraction, a much-needed balm after the stress of Andrew’s diagnosis journey.

We’ll be here for another week, enjoying family time. I’ll be juggling work commitments while the kids explore and create unforgettable memories. Meanwhile, Scott, my wonderful husband, is holding down the fort back home, diligently working, keeping my precious garden alive (those tomatoes are a priority: TOMATOES! TOMATOES! TOMATOES!), and trying his luck at securing a cushy seat in this year’s World Series of Poker. Because, let’s be honest, an extra $35 million would certainly come in handy. The kids and I miss him terribly, but thanks to the wonders of email, text messages, phone calls, and instant messaging, we manage to bug him every 15 minutes, ensuring he knows he’s missed and loved.

Reflection and Moving Forward: Lessons Learned from the System

EDIT: While my narrative might suggest a deep-seated anger towards the medical or insurance systems, I want to clarify that my frustration is more nuanced. Yes, both systems are undeniably flawed and broken in many aspects, but I’ve yet to encounter a country that boasts a perfect healthcare system. My anger was primarily directed at the specific, often moronic, individuals whose bureaucratic incompetence caused such unnecessary stress and delay, those who literally “tossed the key” around while my child’s health hung in the balance. I also fully understand that doctors practice under immense pressure, constantly mindful of the risk of malpractice suits. So, yes, if I were a doctor, I’d probably err on the side of caution and cover my own legal standing too. Ultimately, I am incredibly grateful that the tests were negative, and immensely relieved that, no matter what, we can definitively rule out the terrifying “T” word. But still, the experience has solidified one thing: I absolutely need a new pediatrician!

This entire ordeal has been a profound lesson in parental advocacy, in trusting my instincts, and in navigating complex systems with persistence. It’s a testament to the resilience of children and the unwavering love of a family. Though the journey was harrowing, we emerged with a healthier Andrew, a stronger family bond, and a renewed appreciation for life’s simple joys.

Los Angeles Culinary Adventures: Join My Hands-On Cooking Classes!

Beyond the emotional rollercoaster, my trip to Los Angeles also brings exciting professional endeavors. I’m thrilled to be teaching two hands-on cooking classes here – one this Thursday and another on Saturday. Both are hosted at the Epicurean School of Culinary Arts, a fantastic, state-of-the-art studio teaching kitchen located just blocks from the renowned Beverly Center. It’s an inspiring space where culinary passions come to life.

Are you in the area and interested in joining? There are still a few spots left in each class, offering a unique opportunity to dive deep into Asian cuisine. And please, remember to bring your camera! We’ll not only be perfecting delicious dishes but will also dedicate some time to discuss food photography tips and perhaps even do an impromptu photo shoot of our culinary creations. It’s a fantastic chance to learn new skills, meet fellow food enthusiasts, and capture stunning food photos.

This talented girl will be assisting me with Thursday’s class, and I’m incredibly excited to finally meet her and her boyfriend in person! It’s always a joy to collaborate with passionate individuals who share a love for food and cooking.

And if you happen to be free on Saturday night and possess a passion for cooking, I would absolutely love to have you assist in the class! It’s a wonderful opportunity to gain behind-the-scenes experience and immerse yourself in a dynamic culinary environment. Please don’t hesitate to shoot me an email at [email protected] if you’re interested in being part of the team.

LOS ANGELES, CA: Thursday, April 17th, 6:30 PM – Asian Party Food

Prepare to impress your guests with an array of vibrant and flavorful dishes perfect for entertaining. This class will equip you with the skills to create show-stopping appetizers and mains that are both delicious and visually appealing.

Please contact the Epicurean Culinary Academy directly to register and secure your spot.

• Vietnamese Fresh Summer Rolls with Cashew Nut Dipping Sauce
• Minced Chicken in Cool Lettuce Cups with Crispy Noodles
• Korean Bulgogi Spiced Burger Bar
• Fresh Lemongrass Ginger Ale

LOS ANGELES, CA: Saturday, April 19th, 6:30 PM – Southeast Asian II (A Brand New Menu!)

Building on the success of our previous Southeast Asian class, this session features an entirely new menu designed to explore the rich and diverse flavors of the region. Get ready for an aromatic and unforgettable culinary journey!

Please contact the Epicurean Culinary Academy to register for this exciting class.

• Lemongrass Chicken & Coconut Soup
• Malaysian Chili Shrimp
• Vietnamese Fragrant Crispy Chicken Wings
• Vegetable Pad Thai