I have often discussed and pondered what I would do the next time I encounter a wayward mother with unruly children while shopping. Today I had the opportunity to put my thoughts into action.
I did not make a friend today. I'm pretty sure this lady hates me.
From the time I shopped for veggies, through the frozen foods aisle and beyond the shelves of bread, all I could hear was "Stop that right now or you're gonna get it when we get home!" I looked down the aisle to see a mother in her late-20s and three children under the age of four. Quite the threat for such small children! It sounded like something a dad would say to a 17-year-old son after breaking the car engine.
I followed this family because my Ego and I feel that we can turn a family around like SuperNanny. In the rice aisle, the year-old little girl dropped her purple ZhuZhu pet. The mother yelled to the 3-year-old, "DO NOT give that back to her! I'm sick of the noise!" I reality, the mom was making much more noise than anyone in the store. Five steps later, I handed the animal to the girl and smiled at her. She stared at me with drool seeping down her chin.
In the meat section, the older children questioned each mound of meat, wondering what part of which animal each package came from. The mother yelled at them to stop poking the meat. I smiled at them and whispered that what they were looking at was pig's feet. Yay me! I satisfied a child's curiosity!
We all ended up at the checkout together. The older boy asked for M&Ms as the younger boy asked if he could have Mom's change after she paid. "PUT...THAT...BACK!" she yelled. "No you can't have my change, are you retarded?" Whoa. My mind fast forwarded to these children at home that night, next year, as preteens, as adults/parents themselves. I hoped that they will have nice teachers or other caring adults in their future.
The baby reached out to her brother, seemingly knowing that her mother would not carry her. The four-year-old tried pulling her out of the cart while the younger boy talked sweet baby talk to her. "You wanna KitKat? You wanna sucker? You wanna magazine?" It was so heart wrenching and heartwarming at the same time. "Leave her in there!" the mom grumbled. The older boy replied that he was just trying to help his mom. At this time, both boys started getting antsy and running in front of the store. The mom purchased her groceries and cigarettes and wheeled the baby outside. Having only few items, I was soon finished and found them parked three cars from me. The mother struggled to get them in her car. As I walked by, I played Peek-a-Boo with the baby and received a very dirty look from Mom.
I always feel badly for these kids. There wasn't enough time to educate Mom on how to parent her kids. There was no time or space for me to show the kids love.
I'm sure these kids will end up at my school in ten years. At that point, I will do what I can to un-do what Mom has done for years and hope I can teach them that adults are safe.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Friend #40
I want to talk about my doctor. His name is Richard. Richard is a doctor who also performs surgeries and is in constant contact with women. Richard is from New York City, the Bronx to be exact. Women issues + doc from the Bronx does not equal an experience you see on TV (well, maybe on House).
I immediately took to Dr. Richard because my sister had used him for her doctor needs in the past and there's something to be said about using your sister's doctor. At my first appointment in April, he was more thorough than any doctor I've ever had. He showed me an ancient (read: 1970s) book that illustrated my surgery over ten pages. He put me at ease with his "No nonsense" approach to cutting people open. "You do it, you go home and rest, you come back the next day. Bam, done" he stated.
I think I loved Richard at first because he reminded me of me. My lack of emotions mirrored Richard's Bronx bedside manner. In the days leading to my surgery people asked me each day, "Are you scared? Are you nervous?" No. I wasn't scared, nervous, upset, none of those things. I was ready to get it over with and focus on the recovery (which, by the way, was horrid - one week of recliner musical chairs and loopy brains.) People couldn't understand why I wasn't a ball of messy emotions the week beforehand. I'm with the mantra of the ants when talking about the bad bugs on "Bug's Life": They come, They eat, They leave. But in my case, I get cut open, I go home, I recover. Period.
The day of surgery, Dr. Richard was alllll business. Even though I'd met with him three times before, he didn't seem to remember me. Drat. But seriously, what made me so special that this doctor from the Bronx should remember me?
After surgery he was already on to his next patient. I didn't see him until the next day at my post-op visit. He asked me, "Ok, when was your surgery?" Really? This guy can't remember that he just cut me open yesterday??? I reminded him patiently that it was 24 hours ago. He said I was recovering perfectly. They come, they eat, they leave, I thought. I left.
I had my mom bring me back in the day after that, when I had issues with the gross drains in my abdomen. "Of course you're going to have problems, you just had surgery two days ago. Quit worrying and sleep sleep sleep." Ok, Dr. Bronx, I will.
Fast forward one week. One week post-op to be exact. Same scenario: Dr. Richard enters the room, asks me when I had my surgery, gives me the once-over and says I'm healing very well, tells me to come back in one week and leaves. They come, they eat, they leave.
The absence of empathy and love should have been expected. I mean, that's why I chose Dr. Richard in the first place. I can't pick and choose when people will be exceptionally nice to me and when they'll stay away (as I typically desire).
If I had to choose doctors all over again I would still choose Dr. Richard. He did what I asked of him. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not shelling out money for people to coddle me when I'm in recovery. After all, that's what my children are for.
I immediately took to Dr. Richard because my sister had used him for her doctor needs in the past and there's something to be said about using your sister's doctor. At my first appointment in April, he was more thorough than any doctor I've ever had. He showed me an ancient (read: 1970s) book that illustrated my surgery over ten pages. He put me at ease with his "No nonsense" approach to cutting people open. "You do it, you go home and rest, you come back the next day. Bam, done" he stated.
I think I loved Richard at first because he reminded me of me. My lack of emotions mirrored Richard's Bronx bedside manner. In the days leading to my surgery people asked me each day, "Are you scared? Are you nervous?" No. I wasn't scared, nervous, upset, none of those things. I was ready to get it over with and focus on the recovery (which, by the way, was horrid - one week of recliner musical chairs and loopy brains.) People couldn't understand why I wasn't a ball of messy emotions the week beforehand. I'm with the mantra of the ants when talking about the bad bugs on "Bug's Life": They come, They eat, They leave. But in my case, I get cut open, I go home, I recover. Period.
The day of surgery, Dr. Richard was alllll business. Even though I'd met with him three times before, he didn't seem to remember me. Drat. But seriously, what made me so special that this doctor from the Bronx should remember me?
After surgery he was already on to his next patient. I didn't see him until the next day at my post-op visit. He asked me, "Ok, when was your surgery?" Really? This guy can't remember that he just cut me open yesterday??? I reminded him patiently that it was 24 hours ago. He said I was recovering perfectly. They come, they eat, they leave, I thought. I left.
I had my mom bring me back in the day after that, when I had issues with the gross drains in my abdomen. "Of course you're going to have problems, you just had surgery two days ago. Quit worrying and sleep sleep sleep." Ok, Dr. Bronx, I will.
Fast forward one week. One week post-op to be exact. Same scenario: Dr. Richard enters the room, asks me when I had my surgery, gives me the once-over and says I'm healing very well, tells me to come back in one week and leaves. They come, they eat, they leave.
The absence of empathy and love should have been expected. I mean, that's why I chose Dr. Richard in the first place. I can't pick and choose when people will be exceptionally nice to me and when they'll stay away (as I typically desire).
If I had to choose doctors all over again I would still choose Dr. Richard. He did what I asked of him. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not shelling out money for people to coddle me when I'm in recovery. After all, that's what my children are for.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Friend #39
I am back! I took a week off, not by choice, but by the pain meds' choice. I was loopy and strange. And considering I've only been home and to the doctor's office in the past eight days, my new peeps are all medical personnel (still!) and I'm getting tired of it.
My surgery was Monday. Went well...I showed up, they had me lie down, all the nurses Ohh-ed and Ahh-ed at how pink and beautiful my skin is, someone pushed a needle through my hand and that was it. I woke up 5 hours later with a woman calling, "Kirsten, Kirsten? You need to wake up now." This was Cheryl. Oh, what an angel I was waking up to! "Kirsten, open your eyes now." I didn't want to. I wanted to sleep for days. Cheryl started telling me where I was and what had happened. I knew where I was though, because the anesthesia hadn't allowed me to dream that I was elsewhere. "Sweetie, you HAVE to keep your eyes open." And there it was: Oh My God it was a flashback from my college days and Shannon saying, "You are NOT going to pass out in my car! Keep your eyes OPEN!"
So I let out an airy laugh at Cheryl. She had no idea why I was smiling, but in my mind, it was hilarious.
After numerous reminders to keep my eyes open, Cheryl brought my Knight in, Michael, my hero. She gave him the directions for how to care for me in the next 24 hours until I returned for a checkup. The next thing I knew I was in the car. The next 24 hours were a complete blur of pain meds, trips to the potty, and Mike diligently taking my temp.
I spoke to Cheryl three more times that week on the phone, as she called to check in on me. I told her why I had laughed in the recovery room and she agreed that it could have been a moment from her college days as well.
One week later, and I'm still in pain, still a bit out of it, but I did my first load of laundry this morning.
This afternoon I have an appointment to get my drains (they are as gross as they sound) out and hopefully get permission to stop sleeping in my recliner. Fun times.
My surgery was Monday. Went well...I showed up, they had me lie down, all the nurses Ohh-ed and Ahh-ed at how pink and beautiful my skin is, someone pushed a needle through my hand and that was it. I woke up 5 hours later with a woman calling, "Kirsten, Kirsten? You need to wake up now." This was Cheryl. Oh, what an angel I was waking up to! "Kirsten, open your eyes now." I didn't want to. I wanted to sleep for days. Cheryl started telling me where I was and what had happened. I knew where I was though, because the anesthesia hadn't allowed me to dream that I was elsewhere. "Sweetie, you HAVE to keep your eyes open." And there it was: Oh My God it was a flashback from my college days and Shannon saying, "You are NOT going to pass out in my car! Keep your eyes OPEN!"
So I let out an airy laugh at Cheryl. She had no idea why I was smiling, but in my mind, it was hilarious.
After numerous reminders to keep my eyes open, Cheryl brought my Knight in, Michael, my hero. She gave him the directions for how to care for me in the next 24 hours until I returned for a checkup. The next thing I knew I was in the car. The next 24 hours were a complete blur of pain meds, trips to the potty, and Mike diligently taking my temp.
I spoke to Cheryl three more times that week on the phone, as she called to check in on me. I told her why I had laughed in the recovery room and she agreed that it could have been a moment from her college days as well.
One week later, and I'm still in pain, still a bit out of it, but I did my first load of laundry this morning.
This afternoon I have an appointment to get my drains (they are as gross as they sound) out and hopefully get permission to stop sleeping in my recliner. Fun times.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Friend #38
Again, going with the theme of medical personnel this week, we have the Doctor of Inappropriate Comments ...a.k.a. Dr. Brian, my boys' dentist.
My boys have been to Dr. Brian twice per year for five years now. I've stayed loyal through four different houses/areas of town because of his dental hygienist, Peggy. Peggy is the mother of four boys, all in their teens. She knows, loves, and fully understands boys. She knows how to get them to open their mouths "Open as wide as you do when you yell at your brother," make the spit go through the vacuum "Kiss the straw," and what questions to ask, "Do you have a girlfriend or are girls still yucky?"
On this visit, everything went as planned. Peggy performed x-rays, cleaned the boys' teeth, did a fluoride treatment, handed out prizes, and then excused herself while we waited for the dentist to go over everything.
Dr. Brian came in. He first checked Jack, who was very excited to show him his first lost tooth. Dr. Brian confirmed my fears that Jack will some day need braces. Cha-ching. Luckily, he is not our orthodontist, otherwise I'd assume he was in it for the money. Next he examined Isaiah's braced-up teeth. "What is the orthodontist planning for the gaps in his mouth?"
I replied sheepishly, "He's going to close the gap. He offered to do implants but I'm not big on cosmetic stuff unless it's medically necessary. It's $4,000 to do implants." Dr. Brian was not happy. But I was standing my ground. And that's when Dr. Brian became our former dentist Dr. Brian.
"If it were my kid, first of all, he wouldn't be wearing an Obama t-shirt." GASP! The two nurses in the room and I literally were taken aback. "Secondly, I'd make sure he got implants because by the time he's old enough to get them, he can pay for them his self."
Whoa, whoa, whoa, back the truck up for a second. "Did you just knock our President?" The dentist smirked. Even if Isaiah weren't wearing an Obama t-shirt I'd be offended. Even if Isaiah didn't 1000% look up to Obama because he, also, has a white mother and a black father, I'd be offended. Even if Obama had lost the election, I'd be offended. Even if it didn't put a tear in my child's eye at the thought of his dentist commenting that he didn't like his t-shirt, I'd be offended.
I could tell that my 12-year-old future astronaut/engineer/artist/filmmaker/president/actor was confused and dumbfounded. So we left. I told Dr. Brian that it is not his place to comment negatively on his patient's clothing, nor is it his place to smirk when called on it.
I passed the check-out desk that I've checked out of at least ten times before and asked that my records be mailed to me so that I could transfer dentists.
Looking back, I usually realize that I was over reacting with things of this nature, but when you hurt my child, Mama Bear means business. Goodbye Dr. Idiot.
My boys have been to Dr. Brian twice per year for five years now. I've stayed loyal through four different houses/areas of town because of his dental hygienist, Peggy. Peggy is the mother of four boys, all in their teens. She knows, loves, and fully understands boys. She knows how to get them to open their mouths "Open as wide as you do when you yell at your brother," make the spit go through the vacuum "Kiss the straw," and what questions to ask, "Do you have a girlfriend or are girls still yucky?"
On this visit, everything went as planned. Peggy performed x-rays, cleaned the boys' teeth, did a fluoride treatment, handed out prizes, and then excused herself while we waited for the dentist to go over everything.
Dr. Brian came in. He first checked Jack, who was very excited to show him his first lost tooth. Dr. Brian confirmed my fears that Jack will some day need braces. Cha-ching. Luckily, he is not our orthodontist, otherwise I'd assume he was in it for the money. Next he examined Isaiah's braced-up teeth. "What is the orthodontist planning for the gaps in his mouth?"
I replied sheepishly, "He's going to close the gap. He offered to do implants but I'm not big on cosmetic stuff unless it's medically necessary. It's $4,000 to do implants." Dr. Brian was not happy. But I was standing my ground. And that's when Dr. Brian became our former dentist Dr. Brian.
"If it were my kid, first of all, he wouldn't be wearing an Obama t-shirt." GASP! The two nurses in the room and I literally were taken aback. "Secondly, I'd make sure he got implants because by the time he's old enough to get them, he can pay for them his self."
Whoa, whoa, whoa, back the truck up for a second. "Did you just knock our President?" The dentist smirked. Even if Isaiah weren't wearing an Obama t-shirt I'd be offended. Even if Isaiah didn't 1000% look up to Obama because he, also, has a white mother and a black father, I'd be offended. Even if Obama had lost the election, I'd be offended. Even if it didn't put a tear in my child's eye at the thought of his dentist commenting that he didn't like his t-shirt, I'd be offended.
I could tell that my 12-year-old future astronaut/engineer/artist/filmmaker/president/actor was confused and dumbfounded. So we left. I told Dr. Brian that it is not his place to comment negatively on his patient's clothing, nor is it his place to smirk when called on it.
I passed the check-out desk that I've checked out of at least ten times before and asked that my records be mailed to me so that I could transfer dentists.
Looking back, I usually realize that I was over reacting with things of this nature, but when you hurt my child, Mama Bear means business. Goodbye Dr. Idiot.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Friend #37
I always feel strangely when I have to answer medical questions at the doctor or before giving blood. I hate the questions where they ask me if I take any illegal drugs. I mean, if I was taking illegal substances, would I admit it? And if I answer with an honest "No" they just have to believe me and move on to the next question. There's got to be a better process, like drug testing before donating blood or having surgery. Drug users = liars. It's that simple. I'm not sure why it bothers me SO much, it just does.
Needless to say, Mary was person #2 from my surgical center to call me this week. We went over all of the prescriptions and herbal pills that I take. Not only did I have to list the medications, but I also had to tell this complete stranger WHY I take each pill. Mary is a "by the book" person, I imagine. She has to be. But I started laughing - I mean, belly laughing, when she asked me what I take my birth control pills for. "I'm sorry, I have to ask" Mary replied to my laughs. "And what do you take Prozac for?" Really??? I decided to go there. "Well, I've had six of my at-risk teen students die in various ways over the past five years. The last two were two of my favorite students of all time. When each died, my world collapsed and I could not be the mother, partner, co-worker and teacher I needed to be while grieving. I still miss Eric and Brendan to this day and I hope for a connection to students like that each year. The pain never goes away, it's just managed." Chirp chirp. Mary was stunned. What came next was numerous apologies from each of us. Then we laughed together at the absurdity of these medical questionnaires.
Mary told me that she's proud of me for what I do and stated (as everyone does) that she could never do what I do. She looks forward to meeting me on Monday for my surgery and I'm sure we'll have a repeat performance of our laugh-attack.
Needless to say, Mary was person #2 from my surgical center to call me this week. We went over all of the prescriptions and herbal pills that I take. Not only did I have to list the medications, but I also had to tell this complete stranger WHY I take each pill. Mary is a "by the book" person, I imagine. She has to be. But I started laughing - I mean, belly laughing, when she asked me what I take my birth control pills for. "I'm sorry, I have to ask" Mary replied to my laughs. "And what do you take Prozac for?" Really??? I decided to go there. "Well, I've had six of my at-risk teen students die in various ways over the past five years. The last two were two of my favorite students of all time. When each died, my world collapsed and I could not be the mother, partner, co-worker and teacher I needed to be while grieving. I still miss Eric and Brendan to this day and I hope for a connection to students like that each year. The pain never goes away, it's just managed." Chirp chirp. Mary was stunned. What came next was numerous apologies from each of us. Then we laughed together at the absurdity of these medical questionnaires.
Mary told me that she's proud of me for what I do and stated (as everyone does) that she could never do what I do. She looks forward to meeting me on Monday for my surgery and I'm sure we'll have a repeat performance of our laugh-attack.
Friend #36
Suzanna is my angel and I haven't even met her in person yet.
I got phone call #1 from the surgical center where I'll be having my surgery. Everyone keeps asking me if I'm nervous. I'm so not. I'm focusing on my two week recovery after the surgery because if I think about the surgery itself, I'll start freaking about maybe not waking up and my kids becoming orphans. Yeah, not good.
Suzanna is the keeper of records at the surgical center. She introduced herself in the sugary-sweet southern accent that I long for. "Are you nervous at all, sweetie?" I explained the absence of nervousness and she understood. We went through my surgery and what would happen during every step. Suzanna praised me for my - well, Mike's - preference for a surgical center rather than a MRSA-infested hospital. Suzanna was very nurturing and motherly which is not exactly what I need, since I'm not an emotional person, but I'm sure most patients appreciate.
As asked about recovery and what to expect. "Well, you're going to feel worse before you feel better. This isn't like a cut or scrape that gets better right away. You're going to progressively feel and look worse for about three weeks and then by a month, you'll start to get better." Then she offered something very personal and comforting: Suzanna and her daughter have both had the same procedure I'm having!
Suzanna gave me her daughter's phone number and said that she'd be delighted to be a phone-shoulder to cry on during my recovery. That's going to be a huge help, I'm sure.
A few hours later, I dialed Brittany's number. I explained who I was and she had been expecting my call. We talked about what to expect (she explained that her mom can't talk about her own procedures as an employee of the surgical center) and how to best care for myself.
I can't wait to meet and thank Suzanna in person on Monday.
I got phone call #1 from the surgical center where I'll be having my surgery. Everyone keeps asking me if I'm nervous. I'm so not. I'm focusing on my two week recovery after the surgery because if I think about the surgery itself, I'll start freaking about maybe not waking up and my kids becoming orphans. Yeah, not good.
Suzanna is the keeper of records at the surgical center. She introduced herself in the sugary-sweet southern accent that I long for. "Are you nervous at all, sweetie?" I explained the absence of nervousness and she understood. We went through my surgery and what would happen during every step. Suzanna praised me for my - well, Mike's - preference for a surgical center rather than a MRSA-infested hospital. Suzanna was very nurturing and motherly which is not exactly what I need, since I'm not an emotional person, but I'm sure most patients appreciate.
As asked about recovery and what to expect. "Well, you're going to feel worse before you feel better. This isn't like a cut or scrape that gets better right away. You're going to progressively feel and look worse for about three weeks and then by a month, you'll start to get better." Then she offered something very personal and comforting: Suzanna and her daughter have both had the same procedure I'm having!
Suzanna gave me her daughter's phone number and said that she'd be delighted to be a phone-shoulder to cry on during my recovery. That's going to be a huge help, I'm sure.
A few hours later, I dialed Brittany's number. I explained who I was and she had been expecting my call. We talked about what to expect (she explained that her mom can't talk about her own procedures as an employee of the surgical center) and how to best care for myself.
I can't wait to meet and thank Suzanna in person on Monday.
Friend #35
The In-Laws are gone, back to NY after a whirlwind week-long stay. The house is back to being messy and I am back to being relaxed.
I am preparing for my surgery and subsequent two week bed rest in four days and that means doctor appointments for all!
Isaiah was reminded in March when he had his Sports Physical, that he'd never had his blood tested. This was the first time in three months that I could bring him in to get blood drawn while fasting, so away we went to our friendly neighborhood lab.
I started out the night before, telling Mr. Needle-Hater that he was going in to get his blood drawn the next morning. The football-playing, skateboard ramp-building, high dive-jumping 12-year-old turned into a puddle of jitters in .01 seconds. "No, no, no, no, Mom!"
I reminded him that for some crazy reason, he had never gotten blood drawn as a toddler, like his brother had and that if he could go back in time and talk to his 2-year-old self, it would say "Thank you."
Blood Day arrived way too soon for Isaiah. I reminded him to refrain from eating or drinking anything (BIG mistake, as we found out later.) We arrived at the lab, signed in, and waited for our number to be called, and soon after that we found ourselves waiting for an hour for the hard part. Isaiah listened to his ipod to distract his nerves. I secretly hoped he'd have a lab technician who was an understanding mother, filled with love and support.
"Eye-sigh-ae?" Apparently his name was being called. "Your turn, Isaiah", I urged. He shook, he breathed quickly.
Crap! Shit! Our lab technician was the same grumpy, old, middle eastern man that both Jackson and I have had. Syed is his name. Syed the Terrible. Syed had Isaiah say and spell his name and birth date for verification. Isaiah sat and shook his legs while doing lamaaze breathing and listening to his ipod. "Do Not Look at the needle!" Syed demanded. "You Must stop shaking! You're making me nervous! I can't do this with you shaking!" I wanted to punch the old guy. I offered, "Isaiah, look at the poster and imagine you're at the cabin." Isaiah looked briefly at the picture of an ocean sunset, but was quickly back to the needle about to enter his arm. "You MUST NOT look at the needle! Are you going to pass out? Do I need to do this while you're laying down?" Syed looked at me as if pleading for respite from this demon-child.
"He'll be fine." I stated, matter-of-factly. "Isaiah, you're fine. Do it." This was cake compared to Isaiah's 6th grade shots a year ago (that took two nurses and myself to hold him down!).
"I cannot get a needle in anywhere! Did he drink water this morning?" I got a lump in my stomach, "He was supposed to fast; I thought that meant no water either."
"No, No, No! He was supposed to drink lots of liquids! Now I can't find a vein!"
Shit again. At this point, Isaiah's ipod was turned up so loud so he couldn't hear Lord Syed and his Attitude.
Five more minutes passed and the needle was in. "See? It's in and you acted crazy for nothing!" Syed explained to a still-shaking Isaiah. We watched as the blood filled the two tubes. The needle came out and everything was fine again. Well, not for Syed. Even as we walked out the door, he was still shaking his head in disappointment and anger.
Dude, a little patience and understanding will go a long way in your career...just sayin.
I am preparing for my surgery and subsequent two week bed rest in four days and that means doctor appointments for all!
Isaiah was reminded in March when he had his Sports Physical, that he'd never had his blood tested. This was the first time in three months that I could bring him in to get blood drawn while fasting, so away we went to our friendly neighborhood lab.
I started out the night before, telling Mr. Needle-Hater that he was going in to get his blood drawn the next morning. The football-playing, skateboard ramp-building, high dive-jumping 12-year-old turned into a puddle of jitters in .01 seconds. "No, no, no, no, Mom!"
I reminded him that for some crazy reason, he had never gotten blood drawn as a toddler, like his brother had and that if he could go back in time and talk to his 2-year-old self, it would say "Thank you."
Blood Day arrived way too soon for Isaiah. I reminded him to refrain from eating or drinking anything (BIG mistake, as we found out later.) We arrived at the lab, signed in, and waited for our number to be called, and soon after that we found ourselves waiting for an hour for the hard part. Isaiah listened to his ipod to distract his nerves. I secretly hoped he'd have a lab technician who was an understanding mother, filled with love and support.
"Eye-sigh-ae?" Apparently his name was being called. "Your turn, Isaiah", I urged. He shook, he breathed quickly.
Crap! Shit! Our lab technician was the same grumpy, old, middle eastern man that both Jackson and I have had. Syed is his name. Syed the Terrible. Syed had Isaiah say and spell his name and birth date for verification. Isaiah sat and shook his legs while doing lamaaze breathing and listening to his ipod. "Do Not Look at the needle!" Syed demanded. "You Must stop shaking! You're making me nervous! I can't do this with you shaking!" I wanted to punch the old guy. I offered, "Isaiah, look at the poster and imagine you're at the cabin." Isaiah looked briefly at the picture of an ocean sunset, but was quickly back to the needle about to enter his arm. "You MUST NOT look at the needle! Are you going to pass out? Do I need to do this while you're laying down?" Syed looked at me as if pleading for respite from this demon-child.
"He'll be fine." I stated, matter-of-factly. "Isaiah, you're fine. Do it." This was cake compared to Isaiah's 6th grade shots a year ago (that took two nurses and myself to hold him down!).
"I cannot get a needle in anywhere! Did he drink water this morning?" I got a lump in my stomach, "He was supposed to fast; I thought that meant no water either."
"No, No, No! He was supposed to drink lots of liquids! Now I can't find a vein!"
Shit again. At this point, Isaiah's ipod was turned up so loud so he couldn't hear Lord Syed and his Attitude.
Five more minutes passed and the needle was in. "See? It's in and you acted crazy for nothing!" Syed explained to a still-shaking Isaiah. We watched as the blood filled the two tubes. The needle came out and everything was fine again. Well, not for Syed. Even as we walked out the door, he was still shaking his head in disappointment and anger.
Dude, a little patience and understanding will go a long way in your career...just sayin.
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