This Does Hurt Me More than It Hurts You

The first few weeks of summer break at Casa Dralle sometimes seem less fun and more structured than when the kids are in school: Dralle summer school, intensive house cleaning and doctors appointments initially fill the family ‘to do’ list so we can clear the decks for the rest of the summer.

It initially started with what should have been a straightforward dental checkup for Jamie. We had seen a little grey speck on his back lower molar, and suspected he probably had his first cavity. I thought he would have his standard x-rays, cleaning and exam, and we would schedule a near-future appointment to handle the cavity.

No such luck for Jamie. Our dentist had time in her schedule, and she determined the cavity was quite deep and serious, and should be taken care of right away. 

I could see Jamie tensing up in the chair, as I had had NO time to prep him about everything that was literally about to happen in the next two minutes. Beautiful Dr. Samantha explained every single step to Jamie, comforting him, patting his shoulder and continually referring to him as her handsome and brave ‘buddy’.

Jamie asked to see all the instruments (including the needle), asked if there would be any side effects from the shot, and if the drill would hurt, because it looked sharp. Dr. Samantha admitted the first shot would pinch, but he would feel nothing after that.

I held Jamie’s hand as he received his first injection, and he took it like a pro (I personally wanted to die when I saw the size of the needle, and calculated that I could probably take Dr. Samantha in a fight if she hurt my baby).

The fifteen-minute procedure went off without a hitch, and Jamie got a kick out of playing with the ‘spit sucker’, how numb the right side of his face was, how his cheek and lower eyelid were both puffy and droopy at the same time, and how fat his lips felt.

I arrived home long enough to share Jamie’s adventure with Jim, and then head back out to pick up Jordan for her orthopedist appointment. Her left wrist, which she had broken six month’s earlier, was swelling again and hurting badly.

We arrived early for our appointment and waited almost an hour to see the doctor, as Jordan became increasingly anxious and convinced herself her wrist was broken again.

As Jordan’s name was called, we were greeted by a kind and grandfatherly doctor, who immediately brushed the hair away from Jordan’s eyes when he saw she had been crying.

As Murphy’s Law would have it, the doctor’s office had failed to order an x-ray prior to Jordan’s appointment, and our insurance would not cover an x-ray if it were taken in the doctor’s office, only at the hospital next door.

“I am ordering an emergency x-ray, and you are going to run as fast as you can next door to get this done, and be back here within twenty minutes with a copy of the disk, because I absolutely must leave the office at 5:20. Think you can do it, Mom?” the doctor asked.

With Jordan in full-blown tears, and the clock ticking at 4:53, we flew down a series of interconnecting hallways, and with the miraculous help and speed of all involved parties at the hospital, from admitting to imaging to building security, we were back in our doctor’s office by 5:12.

The x-rays were inconclusive, but Jordan’s pain was intense. For safety and comfort, the doctor ordered a mid-arm cast to isolate her wrist for ten days, and hopefully new x-rays would reveal the swelling was diminished and the bone was fine. Matt, Jordan’s favorite orthopedic tech, stayed late to cast her arm in a stunning lime green sleeve.

I raced at breakneck speed so I could get Jordan home, fed and dosed with painkillers to bring her some relief. Driving home during rush hour on a Friday afternoon, I pegged the speedometer at a whopping thirty-five miles an hour with a daughter in the passenger seat begging me to shoot her.

By 8:00 p.m., both Jordan and Jamie were out cold, exhausted by their medical adventures. I found myself sitting in my comfy bedroom chair, staring at the television that you could not pay me to tell you what I was supposed to be watching. I was emotionally crispy.

Jim and I have been blessed with two amazingly healthy and active children, from birth forward. When our other friends’ children were in diapers and projectile vomiting and spiking four hundred degree temperatures, Jordan and Jamie never suffered a single ear infection or scary trip to the emergency room.

While Jordan took three trips to the emergency room prior to the age of six for falling down a single stair and biting her lip, falling out of a backyard tree fort, and spiking a 106º fever, Jamie (knock on wood) has never seen the inside of an emergency room and only once hit a fever over 105º. I thank God every day for their health and well being.

HOWEVER, the flipside to this blessing is Jim and I are not remotely experienced in seeing our children in pain. And even though we are arguably two of the most calm, laid-back people in times of high stress, nothing prepares a parent for seeing their child suffer.

So yesterday I stood outside an MRI tube for forty-five minutes while Jordan’s arm was scanned, and she only panicked slightly at the beginning of the test due to the outrageously loud noises.

The tech came back into the room, calmed her down, and repositioned her in the “Superman” pose, flat on her tummy with her arms outstretched in front of her, padded everywhere with pillows of all shapes and sizes to keep her comfortable.

As the tech pushed the button and the skinny platform slowly rolled back into the tube for one final test, I gently rubbed Jordan’s legs and wished more than anything that I could somehow take her place.