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Why pain is sometimes good
and necessary
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I'm not the embodiment of evil. I know about it, but rarely do
I participate in it. I don't inflect the damage. I just bill them
for it.
I guess you could say the nurse draws the child's blood, while
I draw their parents. But you would have to be a bit morbid to say
such things.
Anyway, I work for a pediatrician (who also happens to be my dad)
and am occasionally called into the back to hold down an unruly
child. This happens a lot when older children are getting shots.
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I'm familiar with the drill (some call it a
syringe) from both ends. My first recollection of getting
shots was around my 7th birthday. For those who know, know
that children are supposed to get their shots when they are
five, but my dad being a doctor, forgot.
Which reminds me: if you want your children
to have naturally perfect teeth, become a dentist. Don't ask
me to explain. Suffice it to say that none of my siblings
or myself was ever sick. We did; however, all have bad teeth.
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So about my booster shots at age seven; it is enough to acknowledge
that if such displays of courage where shown in time of war, the
soldier would be shot by a firing squad.
Anyway, lets get back to the story. The other day while I was
about my merry duty, I heard an ear piercing scream. Normally I
would have just ignored it - such cries are not uncommon in a doctor's
office - but I was searching for column ideas so I listened up (instead
of down).
The child was screaming something about her "not being ready
yet." That's strange, I thought, is she about to run the luge?
She was not. The quicker ones have already surmised it, but for
those who think everyone who finishes within a few seconds of each
other in the Olympics should get gold medals, I shall state it.
She was getting a shot. An immunization. A 20-gauge needle was being
poked through her sensitive skin. She was not happy.
Not only was she not happy, she was not ready either. This she
explicitly implied again and again. "I'm not ready yet . .
. Wait . . . I'm not ready yet . . . " You get the idea. Now,
I don't know how it happened but she did get her shot. Nor am I
sure she was ever ready. I doubt that any child ever is.
"Yes, mommy. I am ready for that needle to be poked through
my innocent child like skin (for my skin is indeed that of a child)
so that it can inject some serum directly into my blood stream.
Wait, could we try some acupuncture first to get me warmed up?"
Maddy Hoch, the nurse/ boss at the office, stuck the kid (who
most likely didn't feel a thing but cried like a coon dog anyway)
and gave her the shot. Maddy, in my humble opinion, is probably
the best shot giver this side of the Mississippi (I frequent an
injectionist in Baltimore at least twice a year). Of the many shots
I have received, hers are the painlessest (Shakespeare made up words,
why can't I?). Of course, giving a skinny person like me a shot,
isn't too hard. My arm is just a big vein.
The experience with the child who was "not ready yet"
was not to be the last. My next shift found me restraining an 80lb
eight year old who was going to have none of it. At first he fought,
but when I came into the room he gave up his struggle because Maddy
was right behind me. His screams of insolence turned to cries for
mercy as I restrained him with my two big veins . . . I mean arms.
"I'm sorry, I'll be good, I promise." His cries fell on
temporarily deaf ears (kids can really screech).
In a moment the blood for the CBC (a test of the blood for infection)
was drawn. Ever so quickly I wrested his fingernails out of my back
and gently placed in his hand back near his side. Then we drew his
blood for the CBC. I wasn't sick.
"You tricked me. That was a shot. You told me 'no shots.'"
He yelled at his petite mother who tried unsuccessfully to explain
to him that it was not a shot, it was a blood draw. I don't think
he understood. The last thing I heard before I descended to my collections
desk was "you tricked me."
Sometimes I feel like that 8-year old (and not just because we
weigh the same). I don't understand why people I love hurt me. I
don't know why such a powerful person (even more powerful than mom,
dad and the Wonder Twins combined) allows bad things to happen to
good people.
I don't understand why my fiancé is suffering (she's been
in and out of the hospital for a month and a half) from a parasite
that she probably picked up on a mission trip to the Philippines.
The logic of how her failing her final semester of school brings
glory to God is a little beyond me.
On a side note, when I was young there were few things I hated
more (carob being one of these) than picking up an activity book
and finding that one of my brothers had already filled in the connect
the dots puzzle - and had done it wrong. So I won't fill in every
line, I'll just get you started.
Every child that gets a shot experiences pain. What makes the
shot endurable for many are the relationship they have with their
parents. If they know that their mom and dad love them then when
they hurt they turn immediately and say "hold me."
Children don't understand why they feel pain. Parents do. Parents
understand that pain is occasionally a necessity. The alternative
to getting shots may be even more painful and deadly. Parents also,
at times, must inflict some pain for correction. The alternative
to discipline may be even more . . .
My definition of Faith in God, goes something like this: "daddy,
hold me." The Bible says that whom the Lord loves, He chastens.
Sometimes I wish he loved me less. More often I wish He loved me
more, and my fiancé less.
I have felt pain (though it is rarely physical) and if there is
any maturity in me it came from these times of trials.
There is a saying that God's will is what I would want if I had
all of the facts. Since, I don't have all the facts - and won't
have them for at least another month - I can't verify that the saying
is true, but it does sound nice.
Someday those children will understand why we immunize them and
why their parents correct them. But for now, they, like us, are
only aware of the pain . . .
Author's Note: I want to thank everyone who has been praying for
Tamara. And a special thanks to all who visited and called her.
Special Thanks (you can cut this out and put it in your wallet).
We covet (isn't that against one of the ten commandments?) your
prayers and encouragement.
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