Yeah.
Ever wish you had a secretary solely devoted to scheduling your child's therapy and doc appointments?
Hell yeah.
This has been on my mind since Friday, when I learned that a new occupational therapist I found wasn't going to be able to see Max, after all.
Background: A few months ago, I decided Max needed a new OT in his life. He's made progress in terms of using both hands more regularly (he tends to only want to use his left hand) and grasping things, like crayons. But I'd like to see more happening, and I thought a new OT would bring new tricks and observations to the table. I needed one who could come to our home, and they're not that easy to find—especially good ones.
I emailed friends and contacts, asked a few centers nearby, asked around some more. We found a good OT for the summer, but we weren't geographically desirable and she couldn't make it once September hit. Others didn't have time in their already-crammed schedules.
A mom friend had gushed about an OT who had worked with her son. Miraculously, she said could see Max on Fridays. I rearranged his other sessions—speech, music therapy, another OT. Zing, zing, zing—dozens of emails flying around as I tried to see if the other therapists could change to a different day. They all agreed to.
I was at work for the first session with the new OT, but we spoke on the phone afterward and she reeled off thoughts about stuff that could help Max. Including the fact that he needed more physical therapy in his life to help his arms, which don't have a vast repertoire of movement.
Friday, before her scheduled time, she called to say she could no longer see Max. She works in our school district and her supervisor said there was some conflict of interest in her seeing Max privately (even though Max goes to a school outside our district).
It wasn't her fault, not in the least, but I was very bummed and told her so. I am sure I sounded quite pathetic. Like I had just been jilted by a boyfriend or something.
She came over one more time, and gave more great suggestions—getting Max a slant board, for instance, to put on the table so that when he draws his wrist flexes upward (it tends to go down). She also showed me how to get him to hold a crayon the right way, between his thumb and forefinger, as opposed to the primitive whole hand grasp he tends to do.
I wanted her. I wanted her bad. But it was not meant to be.
I asked her to put out feelers with other prospective OTs and now, I am desperately on the prowl again. If I don't find someone who can visit Max on Fridays, I will have to rearrange his week all over again.
Good times.
And may I just say, ARRRRGH.
Dating was so much easier than this.
istock/Captainflash
