In the past two years, if I’d been paid by the hour for time spent in doctor’s offices with my Nugget, I wouldn’t have to worry about the ever-nearing possibility of taking that job as a pole dancer on cellulite night. Nephrology, urology, ENTs, audiology, genetics, developmental pediatrics and let’s not even get into the regular sick visits and stitches. When you’ve got a kid with a syndrome, you’re always at the doctor.

The doctors are different but the waiting rooms are always the same. There are nervous parents, panicked parents, we’re-just-here-to-be-safe parents, and old-hat parents.(I’m rapidly becoming the latter.) You can always tell those on their first visit because both parents are in attendance. The Turk and I tried that a couple times. He’d leave work to meet us at the doctor so we could get the news, good or bad, together. Like I said, that only happened a couple times though and the reason was multi-faceted. First off, eventually the Nugget just had too many appointments – ain’t nobody with a job got time for that.  Second, he’d often get confused by medical terminology, causing him to tune out and forcing me to re-play the entire conversation upon our exit. (Full-disclosure: complicated medical terminology in your second language is rough. That’s why my poor Turk knows some rather disturbing facts about lady-parts and birth canals because back in Turkey with the birth of Number One Son, our roles were reversed.) And third, I’ve recently discovered that the Turk has far more power over the medical professionals in our life by NOT being present.

It started innocently. Without the Turk present, I could put off any decision making by saying, “You know, I’m going to have to run this by the Turk first.” Who’s going to argue with a mother wanting to consult with her baby daddy? Then it progressed to using him to ask for further information when I didn’t want to admit my own confusion, “Just to make sure, can you draw that out in a diagram for the Turk since he’s not here?” But recently, it’s taken a more sinister turn.

Last week patience and understanding vacated my earthly body and I lost my crap all over a few medical offices. See, I have a problem with the slow burn, I’m calm, I’m understanding and then one day if nothing gets resolved I just blow like an angry mama bear searching for that asshole that shot Bambi’s mom. One office set me off over a billing mistake. Another of my explosions was over colossal screw-ups in Nugget’s privacy and care, and the third, well, they were kind of collateral damage but they were late responding and I felt they should be schooled anyway. Across the board, I was served a dish of placation with a dash of dismissal for being old lady cray-cray. This was not the desired response so unbeknownst to him; I broke out the big bad Turk.

“Well I’m not so angry but my husband, the Turk, is furious.”

“I accept your apology but you should just be glad my husband isn’t here. He’s a Turk and you know how their tempers are.”

“I’m handling this because my husband, The Turk, is too angry to speak with you right now.”

Of course the knew nothing about any of these situations as he sat obliviously in his office, nor did he care but that didn’t matter to me.

Here is where I’m supposed to say I’m not proud of my actions but that would be a lie. I’m as proud as a fat kid who just did her first pull-up. It was freaking ingenious because it worked. Suddenly instead of receiving the brush-off, I heard:

“We’ll go ahead and write that off and adjust your bill. If you’d like me to call and explain things to your husband personally, please let me know. It would be no problem at all.”

“I can schedule a private meeting with your husband to discuss this and apologize to him as well. I’d hate for him to have bad feelings towards us.”

“Please pass our apologies on to your husband. Should we follow up with him too?”

Ingenious I tell you. I got exactly what I wanted without going off like a pre-menopausal lunatic. It was so simple. I can’t believe I never thought of it before. Here’s why it worked so well: back in the day, when people thought of Turks they thought of Midnight Express or if they were more classically trained, they thought of barbarians. Americans feared the Turks but knew as long as they didn’t try to smuggle drugs across their borders or overthrow their government the Turks would be cool.

Fast-forward to 2015 and thanks to the current mayhem in the Middle East and the overall lack of domesticated Turks per-capita here in flyover country, the Turks are now looped in with all those other mad Muslim bastards over there like ISIS and the Muslim Brotherhood. Sure the Turks can be a bit surly but they are nothing like their nut-job neighbors but as I’ve learned, people in Indiana aren’t aware of that and hence no one wants to piss off a Turk. Better still, no one wants to piss off MY Turk.

Should the Turk ever need to accompany Nugget to any of these offices, I’m doomed. My jig will be up as my Turk is no tyrannical tyrant with a massive ‘stache and a jaunty fez. No, my Turk is a slight, ridiculously handsome, soft-spoken engineer with only a few tyrannical tendencies that are generally limited to his sock drawer and his favorite pens. He doesn’t even have a mustache (He tried once and looked like a pre-pubescent Peter Brady.) and though his temper can be ugly, it’s generally reserved for road rage or the soccer field. But… no one needs to know that, right?

There’s a famous saying in Turkey – Ne mutlu Türküm diyeneHappy is he who calls himself a Turk

I’d like to one up that and say – Ne mutlu Türk’in eşi diyene : Happy is she who calls herself a Turk’s wife!

Turk
Not my Turk, but a fine representation
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2 thoughts on “Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Turk?

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