Thank You For My Shot.

This is one of my favorite previous posts as well as one of my favorite Max stories. Please enjoy!

Max pleated his tiny brow, “Is it going to hurt?” he asked.

“No,” I said. ”It’s going to pinch.”

“Like this?”

He placed his little fingers against my arm and pinched me, certain I’m sure, that he was torturing my forearm with trauma, though in reality it was more like the whisper of a dandelion settling upon my skin.

“No,” I shook my head. ”Like this.”

I gave his arm a teeny nip, an even illustration of the mild, likely pain that would be coming from the shot.”

“Ow.”

“Did it hurt?”

“A little bit.”

“Not too much?”

“This much.” Max squeezed his thumb and pointer, leaving just enough room for a ladybug to slip through, but only so long as her wings were folded.  ”Why do I have to get a shot?”

“Because they put a few tiny bad guys inside you, so like a million good guys can beat them up and tell them to never come back.”

“Then I won’t get sick?”

“Right.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Max said.  He shook his head and narrowed his eyes.

“It’s okay if you do.”

“Yeah….” He held the last syllable like a note on a trumpet.  ”I don’t think I’m going to.”

At that point, we had been stuck in the tiny waiting room for the better part of an hour, just me and the three year old.  We had a trio of books, each read several times.  I had already made the tongue depressors dance and orchestrated a duo of chicken balloons from the disposable gloves.  Of course I knew I shouldn’t be messing with any of the doctor’s stuff, but forty-five minutes is an awful long time to wait with a toddler about to get a shot.

I began to wonder what it would be like to have the seemingly infinite power of a doctor. I picture him next door, flirting with the nurse, or perhaps piddling around with his iphone.

We had an appointment and there was no one before us.  What was taking so long?

Forty-five minutes in a tiny room with a three year old is like an afternoon in an elevator.

“What’s taking such a long long time?”

Max’s perfectly reasonable question is now turning into a whine.

“Sorry buddy,” I tousle his hair, “I’m sure the doctor will be here soon.”

“Okay.”  His shoulders collapse and he crawls in my lap.

I feel about doctors as I do about contractors. I’m not happy I have to bend over every time I want to do business, but I accept it. They went to med school, I didn’t.  There’s is a skill set I don’t have. But don’t make my three year old wait without a good reason, that’s not cool.

I tell Max I’ll be right back, he promises not to budge, and I step into the hallway. The nurse has misfiled our paperwork, and the doctor doesn’t know we’re waiting.

Grrr.

The derelict nurse enters fifteen minutes later, wielding a needle while expounding, “Sorry guys, this is my first day.”  He then approaches Max with the self assurance of a tourist without a map in a country without vowels.

“Have you given a shot before?”  I slip my body in between the nurse and my son.  I’m not trying to be confrontational, but I’m quite suddenly unhappy.

“Not on a kid,” he tells the ceiling.

“I’m sure you’ll be an ace someday,” I said.  ”But we’ve been waiting for an hour, and I think we need another nurse.”

“Sure thing,” he said.

He shuts the door and I feel angry with myself for not giving him the benefit of the doubt, though I also feel certain I’m doing the right thing.

The door swings open a minute later and a woman walks in who looks like she was giving shots back when they were eliminating polio.

“How are ya little guy?”  The nurse smiles and every one of her hundred wrinkles reaches for the ceiling.

“Good,” Max laughs.

“This is going to pinch a little, okay.”

Max looks at me and whispers. ”I’m not going to cry.”

“Okay, buddy.” I offer my palm. ”Do you want to hold my hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Look at me, okay.”

“Okay.”

Max holds my gaze as the needle breaks, then enters his flesh.  His eyes widen, brighten, then glaze.  The nurse finishes her work and removes the needle.

“All done,” I said.

Max turned to the nurse with two dry cheeks.  ”Thank you for my shot.”

This sounds like the most polite sentence ever whispered.

The nurse spins in surprise, clearly trying to determine an appropriate response. “You’re welcome,” is all she can manage.

Five minutes later we’re at the front desk with Max being fawned over. He’s given not one, but one of each kind of sticker scattered at the bottom of the ‘sorry we had to stick you‘ box.

“Did it hurt,” I asked as I lifted him into his car seat.

“No,” he shook his head.  ”But it took a long long time.”

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