Clinic Day (1)

Every month we have a clinic day. Always on a Tuesday. Every three months my buddy has to have a procedure on top of the dreaded clinic visit. This has been going on for about two years. I should say he has a clinic day but since I have been to every one of them and it is usually an event everyone (me and both boys) is forced to endure, I will say “we”. Shall we walk through this one?

This ordeal has changed quite a bit in recent months and has been evolving as my son has aged. In the beginning I would have panic attacks. Lately I have found it a perfect opportunity to get some reading done. It is never okay. I wake my son extra early. Today we have to take little brother to Grandma’s house. It is 6:45 in the morning and I have already showered and laid clothes out for both my boys. My alarm went off at 6:00. I know there are tons of you that get up at dawn, exercise, eat whole breakfasts, shower, and are off to the daily grind by this time but this is not how we function. Imagine yourself and your routine, now do it two hours earlier. I wake my little dude and he is already whining. He doesn’t want to go and is trying to plead his case against it. I assure him I understand his protest and calmly explain that we don’t really get much choice, it is all for the better, and he needs to get dressed before we are late. He replies to this with more hostility as if I am not listening or just too stupid to get it. He tells me he hates the clinic and wants to stop taking medicine, he says he is done and it breaks my heart. I remind him that we are not quitters. I have to get little brother ready too.

After some prying both kids are ready. Teeth are brushed, shoes are on, bodies are in the car and everyone is very unhappy. There was no breakfast today. NPO, roughly translates to nothing by mouth. This is a simple form of torture for everyone. Even though it is for his safety, and there is no explaining that, it is a recipe for crabbiness. My son will receive general anesthesia around the same time everyone else is enjoying their lunch. I have a cup of milk for the little guy, a cup of apple juice for the big one (that has to be taken away in an hour) and my tea is ready to go. It’s 7:25 and we are headed to Grandma’s. Lucky for us she is an early riser. She is waiting for us and meets us at the door. Goodbyes are said and she tells my dude to be brave. He cries that he wants to hang out for just a minute longer. We can’t stay.

The drive to Children’s Hospital is roughly the same distance from my Mom’s as the moon is from Earth. At least it seems that way in morning traffic with a disgruntled five and a half year old boy. I already miss the baby, he usually comes with us. It would be nice to have him here, he helps big brother keep his mind off things. The highway in the morning is a huge source of anxiety for me. Don’t these folks commute to work everyday?!?! It would seem that setting the alarm five minutes early or maybe switching your schedule around a bit would be for everyone’s safety. Pump iron after work or lay out your clothes the night before so that you don’t have to drive like your car has a meth addiction all while filing papers, taking phone calls, and eating your breakfast. I have planned accordingly so that the only thing I am doing right now is driving. With my son in the car. I would appreciate arriving in one piece thank you. We can talk this over properly some other time, I can see you are very busy.

We arrive! Alive! May the whining commence. I know he sits in the back seat and frets about this visit the entire way. Which only makes matters worse, as if fighting Leukemia weren’t bad enough. It is a disaster trying to find parking in the garage, at 8:47am, which is really the only place to park. They try to make small attempts to be kid friendly, the speed limits are quirky- 4 1/3, not2fast, 3.1415 (get it?) and there is a different animal/color theme to every floor but let’s face it, it is still a concrete eyesore with crappy tight turns and tiny spaces. So I always go up. Around and around and around. There is always better parking on one of the top levels. It is here where the whining turns into whimpering. Poor baby un buckles and crawls up front so I can put on his magic cream (lidocaine) and place a plastic cover over it. This cream is to numb his skin where his port will be accessed so that he doesn’t feel it. He hates magic cream. We pull ourselves together and head for the elevator. Regardless of how upset he is he always remembers what floor we are parked on. Orange kangaroo-level 5.

The whole place is done up to appeal to kids. Everyone is friendly and since Bubby looks healthy, no one is staring or acting overly helpful. To another elevator, up nine flights, we are finally to our destination. It is 9:00. It is here my son is back to his old self. He is talkative, friendly, plays with the trains in the waiting area, greets everyone with a smile, you would have no idea of his turmoil on the way to this point. He has always been this way. Even at his most ill, he is brave and sweet in the waiting room. His name is called and we head back for vitals and measurements, which he likes. Then assigned a room. We wait for the doctor, or since he is no longer on death’s doorstep, the nurse practitioner (who I love). She checks him out, they chat about school, we chat about kids. Then the nurse comes in and all hell breaks loose. He has been seeing the same nurse(s) for well over two years now. He talks about them favorably, can’t wait to tell them about things that have happened since last visit, loves them as people but you come in with a tray of sterile stuff and it is on. When he was a baby they said this would get easier. It hasn’t. He just gets stronger. I take his shirt, he sits in my lap and cries. He is scared. I hold his arms while they clean the area and hold him tight and cover his eyes while he is accessed. This involves jamming a 3/4 inch needle through his skin into his port that is connected directly to an artery. I can clearly see the hole in the needle, it is that big. In relation, so you can understand, this needle is roughly the length of the tip of your thumb from knuckle to nail. It is mine anyway, go measure 3/4” and see. The magic cream is supposed to numb the skin but if you remember things that are asleep feel prickly and weird and he associates this with pain. He is crying and shaking and when it is all over he is limp. Exhausted. With tubes hanging out of his chest. These are good though, it saves his arms (which would be way more painful) and is less of an infection risk than other devices. He hates his port and is looking forward to its removal. 

Bing. He is a new kid. a slightly hunched over kid but much better. He heads back to the playroom to see our favorite guy Joe.

This is a lot. I am going to break it up.