A Band Aid for Mommy

At our routine check-up this week, the pediatrician suggested some early allergy testing for my son, based on issues he's had since very early infancy. So, at the end of the appointment, I dutifully walked Evan down the long hall to the lab.

He needed two shots (just regularly scheduled immunizations) and a blood draw for the allergist. The phlebotomist prepared to do the blood draw first. I think it is fair to say that no parent has an easy time watching their child undergo a medical procedure. I have always suffered a bit when Evan has to get a shot. But, I have suffered bravely and silently, all the while holding my little boy, singing to him, whispering gently in his ear, telling him, "It's alright."

This would, I assumed, be no different. And, after all, I assured myself as the phlebotomist twisted a tight rubber band around my son's tiny and now strangely bulging arm, I am used to this sort of stuff. Prior to being an at-home mom I was the administrator of a hospital unit. Medical procedures are not foreign to me. Blood and needles do not make me squeamish. So, mentally fortified, I followed the phlebotomist's instructions and bear-hugged Evan on my lap, while she began injecting him to find a vein and another nurse held his legs still. I hugged him and hummed to him while she searched...and searched...and searched, the needle under his skin being poked one way and then another. My poor child screamed in anger and pain and I hummed on, determined to be calm and strong. After all, this was a necessary test. The phlebotomist was unable to get a draw and had to pull the needle out.

I spent about ten minutes calming Evan, while she prepared a second needle and talked with a nurse about a different injection site. He was nearly inconsolable, but was finally able to regain his composure. We sat again. The rubber band was pinched around his arm, the needle was jabbed under his skin and pushed and pulled in every direction. I was holding his top half while a nurse held his bottom half and all the while he writhed with all of his strength, trying to get away.

I couldn't hum this time. The lump in my throat was growing too big. I hadn't had enough time to mentally fortify myself for this second round and it was getting to be too much for me. The phlebotomist met my eye as she continued to unsuccessfully poke and prod.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

Her kindness was the last straw. I felt tears spill over onto my cheeks. My baby sobbed on my lap and I silently dripped tears onto his soft little head.

Finally it was over. She pulled the needle out and conceded defeat. We would need to forgo the testing, or find another way on some other day, to draw the blood.

Again, I worked to calm my baby. No time for my own tears now, I paced and distracted with all my might and again, he slowly soothed.

And, again, we had to sit in that awful chair. We still needed the vaccinations and they couldn't wait. Mercifully, these were two quick shots. Nonethless, Evan screamed with all of his might, so traumatized at this point that even looking at the phlebotomist set him off.

When we left the office, he was still sniffling. But, within an hour of returning home, with a dose of baby Tylenol working its magic and a yummy feeding completed, he was back to his happy self. It was then that he noticed the brightly colored, cartoon-covered band aids that had been placed on his arm and hand. He immediately pulled one off and tried to eat it. So, I knew he was doing just fine.

I, on the other hand, felt like I needed a back rub, a glass of wine and bed. Or, at the very least, a brightly colored band aid of my own.