Crazy Train

We've officially been invited to join our pediatrician's Admiral's Club. The nurse assured us that we weren't in the "top ten" of their frequent fliers club; but Jerry and I have reason to believe we are just shy of top billing. Perhaps number eleven? Need to aim higher girls!
Our latest visit was due to a brief but acute earache that lasted most of Sunday night. Historically, Ella's run-ins with illness can leave a parent somewhat confused. For example, after repeated episodes of vomiting a few months back, Ella was working on choreography with a sleeve of crackers. Last night she was traipsing back and forth between our room and hers with a balloon tied to her wrist. Finally, around 2 a.m., after her fourth visit to our bed, I realized this was not going away and this was serious. Sleep deprived and desperate I turned to the source of all my trusted medical advice...the internet. The internet is where I have gone to diagnose myself with a myriad of cancers, Ella with epilepsy and a brain tumor, Jerry with skin cancer and Vivian with neurological issues. And once again, the internet did not disappoint. After doing an extensive assessment and analysis of symptoms ("Mom, my ear hurts"), I was fairly certain that we were dealing with an ear infection. With a clear diagnosis, it was the mode of treatment that I was most interested in researching, particularly at this hour of night. As is typical for my approach to these sorts of situations, I look up treatments that are considered "natural" and "homeopathic" for no other reason other then I don't yet have my hands on a prescription pad. I ran across articles about the use of vinegar and the healing properties of olive oil. In moments I was making salad dressing in Ella's poor ear. At this point she tells me it's better but I now wonder if this was her way of disembarking from this crazy train with me as the conductor. And the sad part is, this is all completely rational to me at this hour of the night. The internet could have told me to slaughter a goat and paint my patient in cheese whiz and I would have done so willingly. Thankfully in the morning, the sun casted a much needed light on the situation. We saw the doctor and provided a play by play of the night before. He laughs, clearly indoctrinated in the ways of western medicine (or perhaps just sane). I wisely decided against telling him about my Plan B which included a combination of roasted onion and vodka. I knew he just wouldn't "get it". We leave with a script for Amoxicillan in hand and we prepare for a peaceful night ahead...sans produce, condiments and hard alcohol. Wish us luck.