A Trip to the Doctor

Today I had to take Chandler to the doctor. He has been sick all week, but insisted on going to school (crazy kid) and then stayed up and partied with us last night until after midnight. When he woke up this morning he could barely speak, barely breathe, and claimed that his chest hurt. I decided that a trip to the doctor was in order.

First, since I hate speaking French on the phone and since we live approximately two blocks from the doctor, I walked to the office to see if I could make an appointment for Chandler. Our doctor sees patients from 9 a.m. to noon on Saturdays by appointment only. The receptionist said that they really did not have any opening, but that if I brought Chandler back at 11:30 a.m., the doctor would probably find a way to fit him in. She just asked for his name, and the appointment was made. 

When Chandler and I got back to the office at 11:30, we were directed to a waiting room, where an ailing aging woman was eager to discuss all of her maladies with us. I did not fill out a medical history form. I did not give any insurance information. I did not sign a HIPPA disclosure form. Nichts. Nada. Zilch.

The elderly woman was called into the doctor's office at 11:40. About fifteen minutes later, the doctor came for us. It was the doctor himself who invited us into his office. No nurses in French doctor's offices. The room had a curtain divider in it that separated the examination room from an office with a desk. We were pointed to the office side, where the doctor asked what the problem was. Chandler explained his cold symptoms. Next, he asked to see our "Carte Vitale," which is the card that French people have for their socialized medical system. I said that since we were foreigners, we did not have a Carte Vitale. He simply said, "D'accord." Okay. 

The doctor then invited Chandler to the examination room, but left the curtain open, so I was pretty much present with them. He listened to Chandlers heart and lungs, felt his glands, and looked down his throat. He then declared, "Ce n'est pas grave." It's not serious. 

The doctor returned to his desk and Chandler returned to my side. The doctor asked Chandler his birth date. Chandler gave it. The doctor did not ask if Chandler was currently taking any medications. He did not ask if Chandler had any drug allergies. He did prescribe three medications: a pain reliever, a cough syrup, and a nasal spray. He did not prescribe antibiotics. We have never had a French doctor prescribe antibiotics, whereas it seems we can't leave a doctor's office in the States WITHOUT a prescription for antibiotics.

He printed out the prescriptions right there at his desk, signed them, and gave them to us. He then asked if I would like to pay by cash or check. I told him I would pay by cash, and he wrote out a bill by hand for 23 euros. I gave him a 50, and he gave me change from his very own wallet. 

He walked us to the door, wished us a good day and Merry Christmas, and we left. 

Did I mention that I did not fill out ONE form?!?!?  That I did not sign ONE thing??!?!? Don't you find that shocking...and strangely refreshing?

After we left the doctor's office Chandler walked home and I walked to the Pharmacy. Again I was asked for a "Carte Vitale." Again I explained that I did not have one. The pharmacist noted that Chandler had not yet had any prescriptions filled there. But when he entered our last name into the system, MY name came up, as I am the only member of the family who has had prescriptions filled at this pharmacy. He didn't want to have to bother to enter Chandler's name and address, so he just put the prescriptions under my name. I am pretty sure THAT would have been illegal in the States. 

The total for all three prescriptions came to 10.09 euros. The pharmacist said 10 euros would be fine. He did not want to be bothered with making change. 

I was home with the prescriptions by 12:20 p.m. That's right, I left my home to take my son to the doctor at 11:25 a.m., and an hour, 33 euros, and ZERO paperwork later, I was home with three prescriptions. 

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I'm dying to tell you about...

...this...

...and this!

Though the two are totally unrelated.

But alas, I have not time to blog today. Tonight we are having a little party for the youth. Graham and Chan have invited friends from our village, and I have LOTS of food to prepare. Hopefully, I'll have time to tell you all the latest in a day or two. 

Until then, know that we are all well and happily enjoying the holiday season! Hope you are the same.

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Difference #57

Today we needed to drive to a shopping center. We walked out our front door, and then we both came to a sudden stop.

I turned to David and said, "Where in the world is our car?"

He thought a few seconds and then he replied, "I think it is around the corner."

He was right.

Here in Loches we go several days, sometimes even a week without using our car. Since we do not have a garage, we just park it in any available space on the street. Which means that when we finally do need to drive someplace, we often find ourselves having the above conversation.

In the United States, I felt completely handicapped if I had to survive one whole day without my car.

Life is just different here.

I like it.

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It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas....

 I have just two things to say:

1. I appreciate having a house big enough for a Christmas tree, especially after going without one last year.  They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder...indeed, my heart is fonder than ever of le sapin de Noël.
2. Writing out the title of this post gave me the overwhelming urge to remind my English-speaking friends that "A LOT" is ALWAYS TWO WORDS! The gift of a little grammar lesson right here, on my blog, free for the taking, just because I love you--Merry Christmas. 

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Christmas Flashback Re-Post

*****THIS IS A RE-POST. IT WAS ORIGINALLY POSTED ON DECEMBER 16, 2008. I CAME ACROSS IT AS I WAS LOOKING BACK THROUGH OLD CHRISTMAS POSTS, AND DECIDED TO POST IT AGAIN. I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND THE RE-RUN.*****


This week my kids are having a Secret Santa gift exchange at school. They are each figuring out ways to bless the person whose name they have drawn while keeping their own identities hidden. Such fun.

Their Secret Santa thing took me back to my own youth. I think I must have been in fourth grade when I first played the Secret Santa game at school. I was so excited by the whole idea, and as the teacher walked around the room with the basket of names, I had only one request: "Anyone but Harold, anyone but Harold, anyone but Harold," I silently prayed, as I reached up to draw a name.

Harold was, well, not very popular, to say the least. His thin hair was a little on the overgrown side and horribly greasy. His clothes always looked two sizes too big and way past their prime. He had a persistently runny nose, an annoying personality, and total disdain for personal hygiene. I wasn't particularly mean to Harold, but I did not go out of my way to be nice to him either. And I certainly did not want to spend my Christmas season shopping for presents for Harold. No-sir-ee! Anyone but Harold would be fine with me.

I pulled out the folded slip of paper and waited for the teacher to move on before opening it. Stealthily covering the name with my hand, I peeked to see who I had drawn. Harold. My heart sank. I glanced over at him, only to see him wiping his nose on his sleeve before reaching into the basket himself. Yuck.

At recess all of my friends were talking about whose names they had drawn. I didn't want to tell them, for fear I might be shunned. I haughtily told them thatSECRET Santa meant that we weren't supposed to tell, and kept the name I had drawn to myself. I contemplated throwing the slip of paper away and "forgetting" about the whole thing. But even my calloused heart couldn't execute that plan when I imagined everyone in the class having a treat from a secret pal except for poor Harold.

I pouted all afternoon, disappointed that I would have to be Harold's Secret Santa for two long weeks. One thing I determined for sure--I would be the Secretest Santa EVER, for I certainly did not want to be caught doing anything nice for the class outcast.

When I got home, I began to explain to my parents the tragedy of my day. I somehow expected them to sympathize with my plight--no such luck. They were (rightfully) appalled at my uncharitable attitude and insisted that I take a gift for Harold every single day of the Secret Santa game. Not only that, they took me to Winn's to hand select each item, and then home to wrap so that every gift was ready to go--one a day--until Christmas break. They were determined that Harold was going to be spoiled by his conceited Secret Santa.

I remember trying to be the first one to class each day so that I could slip Harold's gift into his not-so-cute handmade stocking without being seen. Day after day, Harold's stocking was loaded. He was the only kid in class who got a gift every day--which was quite a shock to everyone, including Harold. He loudly (and obnoxiously) paraded his loot around for all to see, as if he had accomplished something great by simply finding a treat in his stocking.

I was counting the days for school to get out so that I could be finished with my task. At the same time, I was dreading the moment when I would have to reveal that I had been the one filling Harold's stocking with all the goodies. I was no dummy--I knew that it would be instantly assumed that I was IN LOVE with Harold, and I would be the victim of playground teasing for the duration of fourth grade. Such agony.

Finally the moment came when all Secret Santas uncovered their true identities. Actually, only a few had managed to remain anonymous for a fortnight, but I was one of the few. When I quietly owned up to having been Harold's Secret Santa, I was not surprised by the "ooooooooooohhhhhhhhs" that rumbled through the classroom. Giggling and knowing glances rippled across the rows of desks, as my face turned beet red. I wanted to shout, "My parents made me do it!" But just then, Harold caught my eye. He had a look of gratitude like I had never seen before, and he ever so subtly gave me a nod of "thanks." I didn't know Harold had subtlety in him. I certainly had never witnessed it before. Almost imperceptibly, I nodded "you're welcome" back.

Mercifully, the Christmas Break dulled the memory of the Harold thing for most of my classmates, and the dreaded playground taunting was never realized. Well, almost never. For the rest of the year Harold followed me around, declaring his undying love for me everywhere I went. All subtlety was gone. Funny thing is, it didn't really bother me. I can't say I returned his love, but I endured it fairly kindly.

As I look back on my Secret Santa experience I can't help but wonder where Harold is today, and hope that he not only has a blessed Christmas, but that he has found someone to return his love. Even better, I hope he has found the One whose love makes life worth living. Because if the truth be told, I AM a Harold: dirty with sin, poor in spirit, and frankly, obnoxious at times. Yet, in my unlovable state, my Savior died for me. He fills my life each day with gifts I don't deserve, and sometimes I parade them around as if I have accomplished something great on my own. He gives, and gives, and gives. And while I can give Him nothing in return, I want to spend the rest of my life following Him around, boldly declaring my love for Him. The best part is, He really loves me back.

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8

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Mini Mascarpone Cheesecakes

Whilst on our cruise, we were served a bounty of toothsome treats. By far, our favorite dessert was a mascarpone cheesecake. So it wasn't surprising that when I asked Graham what kind of cake he would like for his birthday he requested, "that one we really liked on the cruise."  

God bless the Internet! How did a mother survive when foreign recipes could not be found with a simple Google search? Thanks to the world wide web, I had an assortment of recipes from which to choose. I selected one that looked simple, but elegant, found on food.com

The recipe is for one (1) mini-cheesecake. I multiplied it by five (5), but made only four (4) mini-cheesecakes with the ingredients. 

2 digestive biscuits

10 g butter

1 T honey

100 g mascarpone

1/4 lemon

1 T icing sugar

Directions:

1. 1 Crush the biscuits into small pieces and combine with the soft butter and honey. Place this mixture into one small metal cutter ring and press firmly and evenly on the bottom of the ring.
2. 2 Add the lemon juice and icing sugar to the mascarpone, whisk for around 2 minutes, being careful not to over whisk as this can cause the mixture to split.
3. 3 Spoon the mixture into the rings and using a flan/palette knife press the mix well into the ring to prevent air gaps. Remove the ring with either a hot cloth or blowtorch.
4. 4 TIP: If you find it difficult to remove from the ring, use a flat/palette knife to cut around the cheesecake.
5. 5 Place the cheesecakes onto a large plate or individual ones and decorate with the fruit of your choice!

Read more: http://dessert.food.com/recipe/mini-mascarpone-cheesecakes-296234#ixzz1fB76QHno

For my American friends, "icing sugar" is, of course powdered sugar. As for the "digestive biscuits," I used a cookie called, "Speculoos" which is sort of a cross between a ginger snap and a graham cracker. I think graham crackers would work, but you will have to play with the proportions. I had to use like double the number of cookies that the recipe called for in order for the crust mixture to be firm enough to hold its shape. For the gram conversion, 250 grams equals about one cup...I'll leave the rest of the math to you.  But for this reason it may be helpful to do a bigger batch. 

We used frozen berries to garnish. Happy Birthday, Graham!

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Our Weekend Plans

Today is Graham's 16th birthday, which is really quite amazing since I am certain that I was 16 years old three years ago. Where does the time go? In the US he would be taking a driver's test  today. In France the minimum driving age is 18--Graham has no permit, and no license in his foreseeable future. It is yet another reminder of how strange our lives have become. But while he may be grieving the fact that he is not having a "normal" 16th birthday in some respects, he is aware of the fact that our abnormal life has its advantages. One advantage is that his FAVORITE band, Skillet, happens to be touring in Europe right now, so Graham's birthday present from us is that he gets to go to Germany with his dad to see Skillet in concert this Friday night. How many American kids get a trip to Germany for their 16th birthday? I'd say that's pretty SWEET! Happy Birthday David Graham--you bless me more than words can say. I am proud of your passion, your generosity, and your desire to do all things well.

While David and Graham are road-tripping to Germany this weekend, Chandler and I will be holding down the fort and taking care of Jack--who is in need of special care at the moment. It seems our cat has (for the FIRST time in his 8 years of life) FLEAS. Jack is an indoor cat, but he has been playing Houdini lately. When we fail to close the front door completely, Jack sneaks out. He doesn't venture very far, he barely leaves the front steps. Nevertheless, he has managed to become the unhappy host of unwanted vermin. It isn't even flea season! And why does finding fleas on my cat make ME itch?

 As if caring for a flea-infested feline wasn't fun enough, I will have the mathematical antics of Chandler to entertain me this weekend. He has taken to creating math problems based on the 12 Days of Christmas. For example, if the gifts were compounding--that is to say if on the second day of Christmas my true love sent me TWO turtle doves PLUS another partridge in a pear tree, and on the third day of Christmas my true love sent me THREE french hens PLUS two MORE turtle doves, plus ANOTHER partridge in a pear tree, etc.--how many birds would I have by the end of the week? OR, again assuming the gifts were compounding, what would I have the most of?  Yes, this is how my second son entertains himself. Should I be worried?

Along with the fleas-a-leaping and the boy-a-counting I will have the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree to keep me company. Today we hope to buy our first ever French Christmas tree. We did not get one last year because, honestly, there was no place to put a tree in our 800 sq. ft apartment. So I am downright giddy with the anticipation of getting a Christmas tree and decking the halls. 

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