So Cal and I had to take a trip to the school health center today because he needed to have a PPD skin test. I've never had this test; when I was a kid they did this easy thing where they stuck a little whatsit with four short tines into your inner forearm, felt like nothing, then the nurse checked it in a few days to see if it looked like you had tuberculosis. Now they inject a syringe full of some serum under the skin, looks like a real treat for any kid. Anyway, in order for my boy to be admitted to the dayhab program we've been praying and praying to get him into for...however long, I could count the time in gray hairs and wrinkles I guess, but whatever...he needs to have this test. The program requires it.
And guess what, we're in the home stretch for getting Cal into this program. The biggest hurdle, the medicaid waiver you need for a developmentally disabled child to have access to vital services...we finally got that. I'd say you probably heard my shouts of Hallelujah a few weeks ago when we got that news, but I was in such a weird state of shock that I'd actually made it through the bureaucratic hell I'd been slogging through for years that I almost didn't feel anything. I sat at my dining room table staring at the piece of paper feeling a numbness that I waited to turn into relief. But that's another story that I'm not even sure how to tell yet, so on to today's thing, the PPD test. Like it or not, had to be done.
Calvin's bus came, I shuffled him quickly into the car, and drove him to the clinic for this newest episode of torture I was about to put him through. As I was driving, an assortment of vignettes flashed through my mind, kind of MTV herky jerky style.
The haircuts that have made me feel like a toddler trying to overcome a Mixed Martial Arts heavyweight champion.
The dental work where we tried to wrap him up like a papoose in the special device designed for that purpose to safely restrain him, but that he was able burst through like the Hulk...and the screams that I can still hear and the memory of crying for a half hour before I could start the car for the suffering and wild-eyed terror I'd just helped put my child through.
The blood work a few months ago that took three grown men and me to get accomplished.
The...um...constipation interventions where I've herded him into the corner of the bathroom...you don't need details, they're gross...but I'll tell you that last time we did it I almost ended up with a concussion when my head hit the sink at some point.
The experiences in parking lots lately when Cal is unsure where he is and why, and if he has anything to fear, which can send him bolting for escape like a bull out of a chute, with Mike and/or I both having to frantically wrestle him away from oncoming traffic, noticing kind bystanders putting their hands out to stop cars because they get the gist of what we're doing--and, fortunately for us, not mistaking us for child abductors. (I may or may not have recently face planted outside the local Dollar Tree during one of these adventures. If there's surveillance footage, it's probably hilarious since nobody was killed or overly maimed.)
Anywho, during the ten minutes or so it took to drive the boy to the health center, these were the thoughts meandering around my mind. By the time I parked the car I was shaking. I got out of the car to let Cal out and realized I'd forgotten to turn off the ignition and remove my keys. Yeah, I was in great shape for this.
So in we went. And there they were: The kind-eyed, mom-like nurse practitioner who runs the place, her teeny tiny beautiful and excellent young assistant, and a gorgeous hulking young Latino man, built like a linebacker, who was interning as a temporary assistant. We'd strategically scheduled this little event for when this temp was working.
Cal went immediately into shaking scared animal mode, eyes darting, trying to edge his way out the door, little mewling noises that said "I know this place and I don't like it." The team looked to me for a plan, and I explained that there was no sweet talking or comforting or bribing or cajoling that was going to work, and trying anything like that would just prolong the agony.
"Will he kick?" the woman in charge asked.
I explained that he won't so much kick as just do anything he can to flee. He doesn't lash out at the people perpetrating the violation against him. He just puts all his impressive strength and 139 pounds of very stocky build into getting the fuck out of there, whatever it takes.
I remembered that the way the blood draw had finally worked was to get him on the floor. Nothing to fall off of, easiest to keep him still. So we got down low, beautiful tiny assistant on one side of him, me on the other, startlingly gorgeous linebacker physician's-assistant-in-training supporting and bracing from behind...some terrified screaming, some heartbreaking crying when the needle was inserted and the fluid started going in, and then:
The deed was done.
(And not for nothing, that looks like it frigging hurts. If any of you have had it done lately, you can let me know.)
And up we came, the four of us telling Cal how good and brave he is, my sweet boy calming down pretty quickly, and me looking him right in the eye and promising him donuts. Calvin's food has been very carefully controlled lately. Sky-high triglycerides and some other startling blood work numbers have forced our hand. We've melted twelve pounds of my heroic sweetheart in the past few months through sheer hard work and determination. But today, he was going to get donuts, goddammit. Just for today.
As we got ready to leave, I looked at the three healthcare providers in the room and my eyes clouded over with tears. I wanted to wrap my arms around them each, one at a time (especially the hunky intern), cry on their shoulders, and really tell them how people like us wouldn't be able to get by without people like them. But I had a boy pulling me toward the exit, a boy who'd really earned some donuts, so I settled for the most heartfelt thanks I could get out of my mouth before I was urged out the door.
I hope they know how much they mean to me.
I think I'll send them this post. So they'll know.
