My intention is not to lie about it but to avoid disclosing it until I had to. If that disclosure could occur in the parking lot - the better it'd be.
But it happened beforehand. Anxiety rose - his and mine. He says no. He refuses to go. He says "I'm not doing it". I stay patient. I say we have to do it. I try to disengage. Luckily, I had him showered and ready to go - the must do's before playing on the computer on this morning. It seemed like a normal parental request but - truly - it was my ploy. Get him ready and keep him preoccupied.
The time had come to go. Voices had to raise and demands had to be made. There was almost a chase around the house. But I took his hand and led him to the car and he came - all the while saying he's not doing it.
The blood draw. You'd think it were life or death and he assumed death. He doesn't like to learn about the body. He doesn't like needles. Really, doesn't like needles.
Last time, it took me holding him on my lap and three others holding him in addition to the technician. "Im not ready," he says. "Give me a minute. I want to go second."
I learned last time that a minute would extend as long as he could make it. That time, about 40 minutes. And he still wasn't ready.
This time, I was ready. I brought my man power. I informed them at check in that we had a very reluctant child. Electronics were brought into the waiting room. I had his music and ear buds in my bag. I even did EFT tapping to calm him (tapping on myself) while he was absorbed in a video game.
Finally, it was time. Thirty minutes of waiting even with an appointment! As we pulled him in, he reminded us that he didn't want to do this. I sat down to hold him in the chair and quickly relinquished that spot to David. We battled more of wait, I'm not ready; and I want to go second before we - four of us - finally had him secure. David - holding him in a bear hug, legs wrapping his lower half and arms wrapping his unpoked arm. I helped hold that arm and his head which I turned away from the poke. The third person held his poking arm and the fourth did the draw.
Once the stick was in, the saga continued. He screamed - really? Was he in pain? Or freaked out? He cried. He did not like it and the tension and refusal to breathe made it harder and slower.
And then it was over. Well, kind of. He didn't like the bandage. Nor would he move his arm for the next 30 minutes.
We told the techs we were going for a drink and they asked if we could bring them back something. I told them we'd deliver some "coffee" in a few minutes.
The anxiety. The anticipation. It's the worst. For both of us.
