shots

Cassidy turned two, and so follows her two  year check up.  I put off the chicken pox vaccine last time we were there, saying no, too many shots in one visit.  Actually this chicken pox thing I wanted to put off altogether.  I mean, chicken pox was a rite of passage when I was a kid. It's not fatal.  Why a vaccine?  I argued in my head over and over, and relented.  Fine.  We'll get the shot.

I changed her appointment twice.  One legitimately, as we were out of town. The next because it was just more fun to see a friend.  I wanted to cancel again.  I dread shots.  I hate them.  To watch my daughter go through them?  Torture.

We talked about what was coming last night.  "...And the doctor will look at your eyes, and your nose, and your ears... and we'll see how big you're getting when she weighs you and measures you... and then you have to get a little shot."  I poked her arm.  "It's just a little pinch of medicine so you don't get sick.  You'll be really brave, and it will be fine."

And she was so brave.  We looked at a book to distract her, the shot descended on her arm, and my girl didn't even flinch.  "All finished!" the nurse said.  "What?  That's IT?" ... my brave girl.  "Here's your papers for the lab work.  It's for lead testing."

Crap.  Are you kidding me?  Blood work?

I told Cassidy what was coming next as she shuffled proudly with the snowman sticker on her shirt.  "...another shot, Cassidy.  But you'll be brave, and it will be fine.  Mommy has to give blood sometimes, and Daddy has to give blood sometimes..." The whole time in my head just feeling so awful.  Bloodwork is nothing like a shot.  It sucks.  A lot.

We checked in, waited in the laboratory waiting room, we were called.  Two flobotomists went to work strapping her, tapping her, while she sat in my lap, so far, brave.  They poked her left arm, jabbed and searched, and Cassidy screamed.  Cried.  Screamed.  And no blood.
"No blood?" I asked.
"Nope, we're going to have to find a vein in her other arm."
Are you bleeping kidding me?

They finally got it.  I got dizzy watching her blood course through the thin tube, while singing Frosty the Snowman to her, which we'd listened to the Ella Fitzgerald version of nine times on our way to the doctors.  Her new favorite song.  She screamed, she cried, and it was over.  "Would you like a sticker?" the blood man asked.  "Yeah," she sobbed.  And picked out two.

Bandages on both crooks of both arms.  And it was over.  And we could leave and go home.  And we don't have to do this again for a long time.  And she was fine, singing her version of the snowman song to herself as we walked down the hall of the tiny hospital where our doctor's office is.

All that dread for fleeting moment, over so fast.  Nine more rounds of Frosty the Snowman on the way home, a grilled cheese sandwich and some juice, and down for a nap, just another day.

I can't help but feel this certain "hmph!" of realization about time.  The moments, the movement, the dread of one single moment, one that comes and goes so quickly, as they all do.  All that time I spent, all the moments I spent, bracing myself for one, single moment.

Next time I won't cancel.