Bubble Boy

Several months ago, Dr. Barry invited me to attend an event for TILLIKIDS, an organization that provides hospice care to terminally ill children and their families. I have already deconstructed the utter misery of this heroic organization, but, as usual, a Seinfeldian issue related to them cropped up.

At the cocktail party, which was called to honor Barry's partner Patti being named medical director of TILLIKIDS, they held a raffle. I bought 20 $1 tickets, and, not surprisingly (I seem to often win stuff like this), my ticket was called.

The prize was for 10 free facials at a swank day spa, that typically charges $90 per facial. They have offices in Ocean Reef and South Miami. The raffle called gleefully announced that the prize had a value of $900.

I came home and gave it to Wifey, figuring that she and the Ds would each get 3 facials. They were very excited. Wifey called the spa, and began what turned into 5 months of a runaround.

First the director called and said she was backed up, and then the "free facials" had to be booked 1 month in advance, and finally, that she was "taking off the month of April," so she should be contacted in May.

Wifey, when confronted by an issue she deems unjust, or a ripoff, is relentless. In fact, a pit bull would have abandoned the quest for the raffle winnings after a month or two --not Wifey! She dutifully kept emailing and calling the spa director, and increased her efforts after D1 returned from Gainesville, thinking correctly that a spa day for the three of them would be a delightful mother/daughter outing.

The spa owner, who I'll call Samantha, since that's her name, remained elusive. Even though May was the time she told Wifey she'd schedule the facials, her message box was full, and she rarely answered her emails. Finally, Wifey wrote a terse email about being frustrated that the facials couldn't be scheduled. Last night she got a reply.

Samantha wrote that her teenaged son has a "serious, incurable disease," and Samantha could no longer offer the facials.

Now, I'm hoping that her boy has diabetes, or alcoholism, but she didn't say.

All I know is that Wifey felt awful. Her quest for a fun day out turned into a frivolous request to a woman apparently dealing with much bigger issues.

Wifey wrote, one last time --telling her she wished Samantha had told her from the beginning that she was having problems, so Wifey wouldn't have kept after her, and, more importantly, that we wished her and her son well.

The great philosopher Roseann Roseanadanna said it best: "It's always something."

All I know is, I'm not going to enter any more raffles for a long, long time.