“If a fellow isn’t thankful for what he’s got, he isn’t likely to be thankful for what he’s going to get.”
~Frank A. Clark
“Is it going to hurt?”
Max furrowed his tiny brow.
“No,” I said. ”It’s going to pinch.”
“Like this?”
He pinched me, certain I’m sure, that he sent my forearm into burning agony, but it’s more like the whisper of a dandelion settling on my skin.
“No,” I said. ”Like this.”
I gave Max’s arm a nip; a close approximation to what the shot might feel like.”
“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.
“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.”
We’ve been stuck in the tiny room with the long sheet of butcher paper for the better part of an hour. Just me and the three year old. We have a trio of books, and we’ve read each several times. I’ve already made the tongue depressors dance, and fashioned a set of chicken balloons from the disposable gloves. I know I should stay out of the doctor’s stuff, but forty-five minutes is a long time.
I start to wonder what it’s like to have the seemingly infinite power of a doctor. I picture him next door, flirting with the nurse, or maybe dinking around with his iphone.
We had an appointment, and there was no one before us. What’s taking so long?
Forty-five minutes waiting 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 question is reasonable, but it’s 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. They have a skill set that I do not.
But don’t make my three year old wait without a good reason.
That’s not cool.
I tell Max I’ll be back; he promises not to budge. I step into the hallway.
The nurse has misfiled our paperwork, and the doctor doesn’t know we’re waiting.
Grrr.
Fifteen minutes later, the derelict nurse enters. He says, as he displays the needle, “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 shift my body. The nurse has to stop. I’m not trying to be confrontational, but I’m quite suddenly unhappy.
“Not on a kid.” He won’t look me in the eye.
“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, but 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 wiping out polio.
“How are ya little guy?” The nurse smiles and every one of her hundred wrinkles reach 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. But, “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.”
Writer Dad
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