The Seating Clinic

The Physical Therapist suggests getting Kate a Corner Chair. She says we have to go to the state sponsored "seating clinic." We need to get a referral from our doctor.

We need an appointment with the third party provider/host office of the State Office for Children with Special Health Needs (CSHN). We need an okay from CSHN to attend.

We get a letter from the State, explaining the "seating clinic."
I get the distinct impression that this is actually a "wheelchair clinic."

I call Kate's PT, and she assures me that this is the route we need to go to get a corner chair. Kate's PT clearly explains to providers and vendors that we need a corner chair. After all, the name "seating clinic" suggests that all kinds of seating is available.

We take the afternoon off from work. We walk in. We're introduced to State's "equipment" authorizer.

We do a complete patient intake with new physical therapist who apparently has no information about Kate. Remember that this "clinic" is sponsored by CSHN's, where Kate is enrolled.

We are escorted into a room filled with wheelchairs. Vendors, I think four of them, are lined up against the wall on the opposite side of room - a row of chairs for the family faces them, with wheelchairs in the middle.

We look for the corner chair. Nope.

We explain that we're here for a corner chair. Oh, sorry. But, since you're here, do you want to look at the wheelchairs?
Um...not really.

But, since you're here, you should learn about the process, we're told....so we learn.

We learn that vendors are being "introduced" to us by the State, but the State isn't "recommending anyone" so it's kind of like a dating game, first date scenario.

Vendors gamely try to make a good first impression, by pointing out wheelchair features. But, um, we're looking for a corner chair, we remind them.

Vendors whisper among themselves - ahh...that family isn't ready...So, we politely wheel Kate around.

We leave empty handed. We start over. Mom gets home. It's three in the afternoon. Kate takes a nap.

Mom opens a bottle of wine. Pushing her kid around in a wheelchair sucked. What sucked more was not having the courage to be direct at the "seating clinic."

The phone rings. It's the Children's Miracle Network. Kate's neurosurgeon suggested they call me. He thought I'd be a good story for the radio telethon next month. Am I interested?
Not really, but Kate's neurosurgeon walks on water. I'll do anything for him.

"Sure, I'd be happy to," I tell her.

She needs some information about Kate's medical history. Oh no. Start at the beginning she says...

She punctuates the end of each of my sentences for me. It sounds an awful lot like sighs of pity and "oh nos" and "wows."

I pour myself another glass of wine. I wonder if she does this to every mom on the phone. Egads.

My husband comes home. He pours himself a glass. Then another. It sucked for him, too.

After dinner we decide to take a walk around the cul-de-sac on our street. As we're walking, I look at my family. Matt, my oldest, is three, and has become very fond of my headbands - he's wearing a red one now, and has his sweatpants pushed up around his thighs for some unknown reason. He looks a little like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance.

Kate, my youngest, is in her stroller. She has a permanent rat's nest in her hair- it adds a couple of inches to her height. She's filthy from playing all day - simply covered in dirt. Mom and dad are, quite frankly, a little tipsy.

It's pretty hard to tell which member of the family has special needs. Actually, it's easy. We all do.