Episode II
As the trauma of shot day #1 began to fade in the minds of our little boys, I began to watch the calendar, preparing myself for our second visit. I made a promise to the nurses the first time, that I would return and get the rest of our vaccinations updated. “So many people come once, but never come back to finish up what they need,” she said. Yeah, I can see how that might happen.
But I promised I was going to get this business taken care of; I just had to pick my next date a little more strategically. Lest we forget, I had made a vow to bring along some back up, and I was certain this would make the entire experience less traumatic for us all.
A few weeks passed, and I started planning in my mind for the second round. A date when Father Dear would be free. However, Father expressed his concern that maybe we needed to wait a little longer than a month between shots. “Do you think taking that many shots so close together is a good idea?” It couldn’t possibly be, I thought, but nobody had asked for my opinion on the matter.
I agreed with his apprehension, and figured it would work to my advantage anyway. Basketball would be starting soon, and surely Dad would be able to get away to go with us then. But, like so many brilliant ideas, this one was ignored by those in positions of power and before I knew it…it was pushing Spring Break.
I’d already gotten several friendly reminders from the school, and I half expected the shot police to show up at my door with needles and cold cotton swabs in hand. After all…I had made a promise to return. So I made an executive decision: We’d do it over Spring Break.
Unfortunately, I learned rather quickly that to make an executive decision, one must ultimately be the person in charge (or really, really believe in the matter about which one is deciding) because the minute Dad suggested that I might be “ruining the boys’ Spring Break” by making them get shots, I wavered on my executive decision and…you guessed it…let yet another opening slip by.
I was running out of opportunities, and I was beginning to see that this whole vaccination thing was just another burden, thrust upon the shoulders of a mother, leaving her to bear it all. Alone. There was no back up. The cavalry was definitely not coming. It was up to us. Just mom and boys, left to drive headlong into a hurricane to satisfy state requirements and modern medicine. And so we did.
I woke up that Monday morning queasy at the thought of what lay in store for the day. Cooper went to school as usual, and I kept my plans to myself, knowing full well what it would mean for everyone involved if I exercised full disclosure.
As the morning passed, my anxiety grew. It started in the pit of my stomach and rose to that nasty lump in the throat. I prepared Brisco by telling him we had to “run some errands” and that we’d need to get Cooper to go with us. Poor children. Even when I gave them each a dose of Tylenol “for no apparent reason”, they never questioned me. Never saw it coming.
And it’s a good thing, too, because that 12 mile drive to Hobart was longer than it had ever been. I wavered between nervous laughter and car sickness at the thought of what was about to go down, and it wasn’t until we pulled into the hospital complex that they decided to ask where exactly we were and what we were doing.
“Well, boys, it’s shot day,” I said nervously, and waited to see their responses. I looked back to see Cooper with that pensive, brooding expression on his face and knew that he was preparing himself to be brave. I didn’t even have to check my rearview mirror to gauge the little guy’s response. I could hear it loud and clear. “NO, MOMMA! NO! You said we were going to buy groceries!!!!”
I drove around the hospital a time or two, waiting for the bawling to stop, and finally, the three of us were able to calmly enter the building, albeit looking like we had just been chased the entire 12 miles by a pack of rabid dogs. What can I say. Beauty isn’t everything.
We sat in that deserted lobby for what seemed like hours. I felt so guilty and angst-ridden I even let the boys play with the germ-infested toys that were strewn all over the room. It seemed to take their minds off what was coming next, until…“Cooper and Brisco Smith?” The nurse was calling us back.
We chatted for a moment, and discovered the preferred site of injection for this particular practitioner was the arm. Mr. Brave did not like that idea much at all. “I want it in my leg, like last time,” Cooper demanded.
She explained that she doesn’t usually give shots in the leg unless the patient is very small, but agreed to give one there, just this once. I remembered my fatal mistake from our last visit and told Brisco to wait out in the hall while Cooper received his first shot in the right arm, and then his second and final shot in the top of the thigh. “There. I’m done,” he proclaimed. “No more shots till I’m 15!” I’m pretty sure he means it.
Now it was time for Chicken Little. There was no examination table in this room; only a mother’s lap, and a wall, papered with farm scenes upon which we decided we would concentrate. “Focus on that big, dirty pig, and it will be over before you know it.” But that wasn’t really going to help us much, and we both knew it.
We decided the left arm would be best since we had practice the next night, but before she could even swab him with cotton, he was fighting and pawing, trying to get out of that chair.
I trapped his right arm under my left and held his other down with my right. “Don’t look at the needle,” I urged him, but it was like a train wreck in progress. The child could not look away. “OW!!! NO!!! AAHHH!!!”
As the first needle came out and the second swabbing began, he decided to take a different approach. “NO! NO!” he cried. “That cotton stuff stinks! Please, Momma! NO!”
I’ve gotta give him points for creativity, but there was nothing else I could do to help him. And just as the nurse was ready to poke him with shot number three, his arm broke loose from my grasp, and he started flailing it around, somehow magically avoiding both the nurse’s and my attempts to capture it. Kind of like a fireman’s water hose gone mad.
Finally, we secured that unruly limb, and the nurse quickly pinched Brisco’s skin and jabbed the needle and that last dose of medicine right where it needed to be. Alas, the trauma had ended.
Through tears and sniffles he asked, “Do I have to get any more till I’m 15?”
“Only one before school starts next year,” I promised. “But after getting four and three, one will be easy,” I said.
“Will I still get ice cream if I only get one shot?” he said, eyes wide with anticipation.
“You’d better believe it,” I promised. “The biggest bowl of ice cream money will buy!”
And with that, he dried his eyes, gave his band aids a quick glance, and threw both arms around my neck. “Let’s go, Big Momma. I’m ready for that cold cream!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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