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| Photo credit: Photo by Nick Atkins Photography on Flick |
A few weeks ago, my son had his annual checkup. Because I am perpetually disorganized, and because insurance only pays for one checkup a year (meaning each must be scheduled at least one year and one day apart), my children's checkups keep moving further and further from their actual birthdays. Eventually, they will move all the way around the calendar and be examined in their birth months again. My daughter is actually so far off at this point that when I took her in, the doctor wasn't sure whether to consider it a four or a five year old appointment; she was equal times from both.
Aside from the thrill of never knowing exactly when they will occur, doctor's appointments with my son take on the extra aura of excitement that comes from being tinged with terror. There are few things in life my son fears more than seeing the doctor; as far as my son is concerned, the doctor is right up there with food as one of the great evils in life.
I learned some time ago that the easiest way to handle doctor's visits was to spring them on my son unexpectedly. I'd tell my son we were going to the toy store, and out we'd go out with me whistling innocently. Fifty feet down the road from the doctor's office I'd tell my son we had to make a stop on the way to the toy store, and then -- surprise! -- there we'd be. I'd hold out the toy store throughout the visit as the end goal, and true to my word, would reward him at the end with a trip to pick out a treat to make up for the trauma.
On this last visit, I made the mistake of musing out loud the night before to my husband, "I have to check our messages. I think I might have to take Son to the..." Shit! Of course, he was listening. And he stood in front of me, hopping up and down anxiously, "To the what? To the what? Take me to the what, Mama?" Never one to think well on my feet, I said, "You might, maybe, I'm not sure, but you might have to go to the doctor."
"NOOooooo! Are there going to be any needle bites? Are there? Are there? I don't want any needle bites!" He's descended into a flurry of panic in his great fear of shots.
"I don't know if you have to go and if you do I don't know if there are any shots." I hate lying.
"Are there any needle bites? ARE THERE? I don't want any needle bites."
"I'll have to ask the doctor."
"Ask now! Call now! NOW! NOW!"
I decide a little deception is ok, since uncertainty means anxiety and shots also mean anxiety. Telling him definitively that there are no shots will buy him 12 hours relatively free of panic until we arrive at the doctor's office and he starts repeating this question (regardless of any previous assurances) 5000 times between then and our departure. I pretend to check the computer and reassure him that there will be no "needle bites" the next day.
The day of the appointment dawns and I get both kids up and dressed. When my son realizes his bus has not arrived and it's time for his sister to go to school, he asks, "No school for me this morning?" "Nope," I answer, "It's a short day for you." No mention of the doctor. Whew! We drop my daughter off at school and he stares happily at trees and buildings and cars whizzing by without noticing or asking where we're going. Whew!
We arrive in the parking lot of the doctor's office. It represents years of progress that he does not break down in tears at the sight of the building, but he clutches my sleeve and buries his head in my arm as he walks sideways, like a crab, toward the office. Along the way the question that torments him is repeated again and again, "Will there be any needle bites? Will there be any needle bites? Will there be any needle bites?" My vague answers are distinctly unsatisfactory, but a straight up "yes" will send him into a panicky tantrum, so I continue to hedge.
I give his name to the receptionist. He screams at her for using his real name and not his nickname. He is terrified, but his ferocity terrifies her too. He's too terrified to check and make sure that I paid the copay with the credit card that has his favorite number and signed my name the way he likes, which is good, because I didn't. The nurse calls us back, and he screams at her too for using the "wrong" name. She tries to get his weight, but he clutches the pole and rocks on the scale as he continues to ask if there will be any needle bites. I tell the nurse to forget about the weight, but she continues to try and gets frustrated as he rocks. I tell her again to stop trying, and we go to the exam room, weight unknown.
He asks again and again about needle bites. I try to keep him in the present, reassuring him that there are no needles in the room right now. The doctor comes in and checks my son's records: he's not due for any immunizations (No shots! Good!), but due to his limited diet, he needs to be checked to make sure he doesn't have any vitamin deficiencies (Blood draw! Worse than shots!) My son sits on my lap and stiffens with panic during each part of the exam, but makes it through: normal blood pressure (surprisingly), normal temperature, healthy eyes and ears and throat, normal heart and lungs. He leaves the exam room, having received no needle bites, in a much better mood. He's extremely cooperative for his hearing and vision tests; they are like games and he likes them. The nurse pushes her luck and tries to get him on the scale again. He yells at her and she reprimands him for being "not very nice."
I tell him we have to make one more stop. We go to the blood lab, and I hand them the paperwork. My son has stopped asking about the needle bites, feeling he has escaped. We sit down to wait, or I sit down to wait while he slides off his chair, drapes his feet over the armrest, slides his body under the armrest, repeats his current favorite word ("boogers") over and over. I can feel the old ladies waiting for their blood tests staring at me while I do nothing. He calls me "boogerhead" and giggles. The old ladies stare coldly. He melts onto the floor and slides back up again. He squats on the chair and rocks. He asks me about his friends at school while he slides under the armrest. The old ladies silently disapprove. They don't know I am leading a lamb to the slaughter.
Finally, the nurse calls his name (and is yelled at) and we walk back toward those torturous blood draw chairs. As we walk down the hall, I explain that the doctor needs to have this one last test done to make sure he's healthy. He tenses as he sees the chairs, and I sit down and hoist him onto my lap while I tell him that they're going to have to take some blood. When the technician attempts to roll up his sleeve, a trauma in and of itself, he stiffens and starts to scream. She calls another technician over to help hold him. I talk softly to him and remind him that it won't take long and that we're going to the game store as soon as this is over. Between the three of us, we hold him down and get the vial of blood that will tell the doctor whether or not he's getting sufficient nutrition.
One of the technicians brings him two lollipops. He doesn't eat them, of course. They end up being for his sister, but I never tell anyone that; it seems to make them feel better to give him something for the pain, something most kids like. We sit in the chair for several minutes after it's over. He's red faced and sobbing, holding his pricked arm out stiff and straight. The technician throws us a sympathetic look, the only person all day who has, because it's understandable for kids to be terrified of needles.
I ask him if he's ready to leave, but he can't answer, because he's upset and words fail him. So, I stand. He'll push back if he's not ready, but he stands too, and we walk out. "Can we go to the top floor?" he asks. (Yay! He's overcome the trauma to engage in his routine in every multi-floor building we enter: to travel to the top story.) We go up and explore, go to the game store and buy a used version of Battleship for the Gameboy and head off to school. And we're all done for another year. Well, maybe let's make that a little more than a year; after all, it'll make sure the insurance pays, help us work our way around the calendar and give us all that much more time to recover.
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