I Wanna…Blog Some

I sit and I look at the other families that are here.  Waiting with a child who is being seen in the Radiology Department of a Children’s Hospital.  That’s what we are all doing.  I’m looking at the mother with her daughter, son, and her own mother.  I can tell which child will be seen because she’s wearing a wrist band.  The same kind that my son has on.  I want to ask, "What is she here for?" But I don’t.  What if it’s too depressing?  What if she asks what we are waiting for?  Will I want to tell the whole story just to hear what happened one more time so that I really believe it actually happened? 
There is a younger mom–very pretty with a very pretty husband a daughter.  I overhear her say the baby is 2 weeks old.  I want to ask her why a mom of a two week old has to be in such an awful place.  She doesn’t seem worried.  She doesn’t seem like she is thinking, "Why the fuck do I have to be here when I should be at home just enjoying my new baby?  Why didn’t anyone warn me that her life might not be perfect?"  I never see the baby because she stays asleep in her car seat the entire time so maybe this young mom is at a place where she is keeping a distance from her baby and anything that could be wrong with her.  I can understand that.  I’m a big fan of denial. 
We get called back to prepare for the MRI.  This time it means my son gets poked with a needle to be ready for the eventual dye to be injected for a better look inside of his head.  The first nurse had difficulty finding a good vein and she starts digging around in my son’s hand and isn’t finding what she’s looking for.  Poor kid.  He’s so strong, so brave, but a 10 year old can only be put through so much.  He turns a little pale and starts acting a little odd.  And as an avid passer outer I know to ask, "Kid, are you doing alright?"  The answer is, "No."
He never does pass out.  A little PowerAde and a short break lying down and he is ready to be poked again.  This time another nurse tries and she nails it on the first attempt with the help of a Child Life Specialist who is there to remind my son to breathe.  "Take a deep breath…now exhaaaaaale…."
The final preparation for this MRI is a lot like going through airport security.  I have to empty pockets, I can’t have any metal on me, and I have to promise that I have no metal plates in my head.  I remember the drill from the last time and even my hair is pulled back with a metal-free hair tie. 
We are outfitted with ear plugs and the boy is allowed to lie down on this space age table that will take pictures of his brain.  It doesn’t take long to start the MRI.  It sounds like a bazooka gun going off. Boomboomboomboomboom.  Datdatdatdatdatdatdat.  Zzzztzzztzzzztzzzzzt.  Boomboomboomboomboomboom…..  This big machine sounds like it is assaulting my son.
He is still—so still that he falls asleep during most of the procedure including when the dye is injected.  When the dye is injected I am told that it will only be seven more minutes.  Seems faster than the last time.  I still have time to wonder to myself, “Why the fuck do we have to be here when we should be at home enjoying summer vacation?  Why didn’t anyone warn me that his life might not be perfect?” 

When I walk out I don’t look around at any other families.  I forget all about the other families and their kids.  I just take my kid to go get a candy bar and put it behind us for the day.