Family trauma…aka childhood vaccinations

Episode I

I’ll admit it. My first mistake was not getting all our boys’ childhood vaccinations while they were too young to retain the traumatic memories. I’ll accept that. But it’s not like we hadn’t had any. We received more than enough while they were little; enough to make me wonder why I was allowing modern medicine to use my children as living, breathing pincushions.

Then life got busy. We started moving around, and Brisco always seemed to have a cold when it was time to go back. Somewhere along the way, we got them too close together. And then ceased to get them at all. So now that we are going to school, it appears we’ve run out of options. It’s time to Cowboy Up and take it like little men.

We picked a day in September, and drove to the County Health Department. None of us had ever been there, nor were either of the boys big enough to remember the last time they had been brutalized with four inch needles, so when I pulled up in front of the small building and informed them that “today is shot day”, there was only a little fear and trembling present on their faces. They really had no idea what lay in store. For that matter, neither did I.

We sat out front for a while and filled out papers and finally when they called us back, we all went willingly. The nurse said, “Ma’am, your oldest boy needs five injections and your youngest needs seven. (Cue nausea and vomiting…and that was just for me.)

We decided to do only half for each, and that’s when I realized the boys really didn’t have a clue how a shot was given or why the numbers “five and seven” made their Momma go white as a sheet. This was about to get interesting.

We all sat in the examination room together. Cooper decided he would go first, so up onto the table he went. The nurses had him lie back, with me lying across his upper body so he would be still and I suppose to keep him from seeing what was coming next. But Brisco could see it all, which was definitely my second mistake.

Allowing the more impressionable, more fearful, and more vocal of our two boys to sit directly across from his big brother-eyeballing every move the nurses made-did not help our cause. He could see that long needle coming for his brother’s meaty thigh. The first. And the second.

Thank goodness Cooper was a trooper. He barely winced or even made a sound…until that third needle went in. There was a loud, “Oooww!!!” and a whimper and painful look on his face. There might have even been a tear or two that fell, but Cooper was not the child I now had to worry about. It was Brisco.

As I got the big boy off the table and settled in his seat, I turned to find that the little guy had quietly shuffled his way out the door. I found him in the hallway and snagged his arm just as he was attempting to flee. The bawling and fighting had already begun and the nurse hadn’t even swiped his skin with cotton.

I manhandled the boy whose body had instantly become filled with Hulkomanian-type strength. I managed to uncurl him from his fetal ball, and we assumed the same positions as Coop and I had, only this time, I actually had to use my body weight to hold the child down. There wasn’t much I could do for his legs, which were kicking toward the nurse’s assistant who was at least seven months along in her first pregnancy. I looked at her and thought, “I bet you’d like to re-think this whole baby-thing you’ve got going.”

Oh well. Too late now. For her and for Brisco. Because about the time she secured his abnormally strong leg, the nurse let the first injection fly. (Cue blood-curdling scream, followed by, “NO!! NO!! IT HURTS!!!”) Oh boy.

Looking at Brisco from that angle, all I could see was the guy on Indiana Jones who’s face goes pale, completely drains of blood, and peels right off his skull. It is possible that I was hallucinating on that last part, but the kid was white. And his mouth was wide open. And I swear if he’d have screamed any louder, his eyeballs would have popped out of his head. Now we were both scared.

I wanted to tell the lady just to hurry up! Quick and painless! Like ripping off a band aid! The truth is, I wanted her to stop as badly as Brisco did. But we were here, and evidently some bureaucratic, quasi-medical so-and-so says my children must be injected with live antibodies from deadly diseases to lead normal, healthy lives. So we trudged on.

The second shot followed the format of the first, with pretty much the same result, although now the paper under my child’s head was soaked with his tears, and snot bubbles began popping from his nose. I just held him tight, assuring him it would all be over soon.

The nurses thought the humane thing to do would be to give him two of the shots in the left leg and the other two in the right. So about the time the left leg had gone numb from the pain, the right was baptized by fire into the life-saving necessity of these childhood vaccinations.

By now, Brisco was coughing and gagging. He’d almost lost his voice from his screams, but mustered enough strength to yell out in a gravelly shriek, “NO!! MOMMA! NO MORE!” Like I have any say-so in the matter at all.

Finally, the fourth shot was given, and there was nothing left to do but dry our tears, hold each other tight, and prepare ourselves for two of the biggest bowls of ice cream ever consumed by four and five year old boys. That, and worry about when we had to come back.

“Let’s not worry about the next trip until we have to, ok?” They seemed to agree for the time being. And as we sat enjoying the most candy-filled, syrup-topped, sugar-full dessert Sonic had to offer, I made myself a promise that next time, I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I’d made today. Next time, I would be more prepared. Next time? I was bringing backup. This kind of family trauma was something a Daddy should get to experience for himself!

And that’s All in a day’s work!