Normal is Relative

Once a month, Ben and I go to Edwards Hospital for a blood test and check up. Luckily, this sweet little hospital is only about 10 minutes from our house and has free parking, unlike Comer Children’s in Chicago, which is a 45 minute drive without traffic (absolutely never happens), and parking costs $16 an hour since I always forget to buy the multi-pack of parking vouchers. 

So we drive past the good Starbucks on Washington, and Ben usually suggests that we go to the drive-thru for a cake pop after his appointment. I say something non-committal, trying not to crush his hopes and piss him off before his check up but also to not make a promise I have no intention of keeping. I do not want to buy a $3 treat that should cost less than 50 cents. Who does, honestly? Cake pops were invented to use up leftover cake at bakeries. But five year olds remember everything cake pop and snack related. No medical events could be too intense to cause him to forget that kind of promise. 

We wind around the construction that’s the future site of a cancer center arriving a few years too late for us to make use of it, which is fine - I don’t want to do it again just to be able to go to a closer hospital. We find a parking spot somewhere around the 3rd floor. Last time we went, we discovered a new elevator that was kind of fast and had a window, and oh my god was that a great discovery. We got to say “Woo!” as our stomachs flipped a little each time it stopped and came out laughing like we’d been to an amusement park. And we came out a new door, so Ben had to figure out which way we needed to turn to get to the lab for the blood draw, a little guy on his own adventure, navigating hospitals like he navigates paths through the woods to get to the park. 

Technically, the worst part of these mornings actually comes about half an hour before we leave the house, when it’s time to put on the numbing cream. It’s some small percentage of lidocaine in a white paste. I squeeze out about a dime-sized amount onto his arm where they’ll stick him for blood, and then I cover it with Glad Peel-n-Stick, a kitchen do-dad I haven’t really been able to bring myself to use for food storage for almost three years now. He absolutely despises the feeling of the cold cream touching and gradually penetrating his skin, tingling and intensifying as it works its way in. Every single time, I have to repeat, like a mantra, “It’s not pain, it just feels icky, right? Is the pokey worse than this?” And through his tears and protestations, he agrees and brandishes his arm while turning his head away in a gesture saying without words, “do your worst, evil woman.” This used to break my heart, watching him have to rationalize and rank pain in a way most people don’t learn until they’re older when they get into sports or drugs or mental health struggles. I guess it still does, but it also just needs to get done.

When we get to the lab, a room in a separate part of the clinic from our doctors’ office, we see the same receptionist, who looks at Ben with a mixture of pity and tenderness I’ve grown accustomed to seeing on the faces of health professionals. I always want to reassure people that he’s doing great, that he doesn’t have cancer anymore and just has to keep doing these check-ups to make sure it stays that way, but I just smile and sign him in while he roots through my bag for snacks. When they call his name, he leads us down the short hall and jumps up on the chair. Sometimes, the phlebotomist is new and looks scared as she looks waaayyy down at his little self, fearing the wiggles and tears that accompany most kids, but Ben sticks out his arm and waits as she ties the rubber tube around his tiny bicep and watches as she inserts the needle to draw her test-sized vials. He knows to wait nice and still for her to remove the needle and puts on gauze and a band-aid, usually with characters on it or at least a fun color, and the whole thing takes less than a minute. 

And then we go up to the office on the slowest elevator of all time, trying to count to 100 before it reaches the 4th floor. He might get it next time. Or the time after that. He’ll have plenty of chances to practice.