“No, Mommy!
Please! No!” His desperate screams fill my ears and I have
to turn my head away so that he won’t see the tears that threaten to leak out
of the corners of my eyes. So that he
won’t know how much his helplessness and vulnerability break my heart. Oh, how I long to rescue him from this
pain! To protect him from this
terrifying situation that causes him this out-of-control panic. Instead, I hold him even tighter, pinning his
arms so that he can’t move. He may
believe at this moment that I am the worst parent in the world by subjecting
him to this agony, but I know that this is what he needs in order to be
healthy.
“Sh, it’s okay,” I keep whispering into his
ear. “I’m here, Sweetheart. I’m right here. Just squeeze my hand. Sh.” I
continue to hold him securely while he continues his frantic cries. He is unable to hear my words of
comfort. The roar of fear has caused his
ears to be deaf to my voice. He is so
blinded by terror that my face, the room we’re in, everything becomes fuzzy and
out of focus.
I pray silently, Please, God, let this be over soon!
The phlebotomist patiently attempts a third and then a fourth time to locate
a good vein, to draw enough blood to fill 10 – yes 10! – vials to be sent to
the lab for testing. With each passing
minute, with each painful stab of the needle, with each piercing scream, it
gets increasingly difficult to watch.
I knew when our little foster baby had his organ transplant four
years ago that it would mean life-long concerns about his health.1 I knew when we adopted him two years ago that
it would mean a life-long commitment to his care. That it would mean sacrificing countless
hours, summoning boundless energy, and experiencing immense inconvenience.
What I didn’t know, what I never could have
planned, was the indescribable love in my heart for this resilient child. The unimaginable heartbreak of watching him
endure repeated medical tests. The
fierce protectiveness that I feel for him every time we step foot into this
place.
And I didn’t know how significantly the medical
trauma of his early years would affect him.2 That it would cause him to have such ongoing
fear. That every time he has a medical procedure,
even a minor one, he is re-traumatized, and the healing has to start all over
again.
Normally, getting your blood drawn should not
be such a traumatic event. It shouldn’t
be such a major ordeal every single time!
One would think that after being subjected to various medical procedures
hundreds of times over the past six years, that he would get used to it. What is he so afraid of? Why doesn’t he just
remain calm and hold still? He knows
it’s going to be over in a few minutes. Why
isn’t he brave enough to fight this fear?
Finally, mercifully, the needle comes out, the
band-aid goes on, and I reassure him once again that I am here, and that he is
safe. And he is safe . . . until next time.
