She types her name into the computer and checks in. My daughter is ready to hear her name called for her annual check-up.
Ever inquisitive, the child has never disliked the doctor. This time, however, she is dreading the words she knows she will hear… “chicken pox booster.” She has been thinking about little else, in her free time, for the past few weeks. Shots are just not her thing.
Her name is called. Together we walk to the room and the check-up begins.
“55 inches” the nurse tells her.
My daughter glows. She has grown her annual two inches.
“66 pounds” the nurse states.
“Really?” I am constantly amazed at my daughter’s weight as she is heavier than she looks.
“She isn’t a baby anymore,” the nurse tells me.
No she isn’t , I think to myself.
BMI number found, blood pressure taken, eyes quickly tested. We are back in the room with my daughter in her backless gown and the doctor chatting about eating out, healthy foods, too much TV etc.
My daughter answers questions, touches her toes, and breathes deeply. She asks the doctor about the state of the umbilical chord that connected my body to hers. “Is it still there? What happened to it”
And then, “Can your bottom go numb?”
The doctor is fabulous. She answers questions and gently moves through the examination without causing any pain or stress.
As the doctor fills out her paperwork, my daughter dresses.
“it appears that you need a chicken pox booster.”
The dreaded words have been stated. My daughter starts to whine. “Get me out of here. I don’t want a shot”
This brave kid who thinks nothing of standing on a tiny peg at 42 feet begins to hyperventilate as she sits on my lap. The needle is in the near future; a shot will happen; her worst fears have been realized.
The doctor leaves.
The nurse returns.
On my lap, my daughter's muscles stiffen as the nurse cleans the area to receive the needle.
My daughter goes stiff. Her neck is tight as she refuses to look away from the cleaned skin.
I feel for her. No one likes a shot. I have done my fair share of fainting after a shot, but enough is enough.
“This is going to happen.” I tell her. “You will have this shot. We don’t want to bring in more people to restrain you.”
She buries her head against my shoulder.
I start to count in Spanish, and the shot is over before I reach five.
“It hurt.” She says as she stands up and I thank the nurses for their patience. I can tell my daughter is a bit stunned at the lack of pain she is feeling. The entire incident was a tad anticlimactic.
We leave the doctor – our annual visit complete.
“I did my best,” she calls from the backseat.
I have to admit, she did a good job. We left with a clean bill of health, the shot drama was less than it could have been, and she ran 2.25 miles before the doctor’s appointment.