I sat in the dentist's chair, waiting for the lidocaine to kick in. Maybe, I thought, it would also numb the dread I was feeling about what was about to happen.
Before he left, the doctor had handed me the little suction valve, and told me to use it whenever I needed. As I used it, I felt worse and worse. In a moment, I realized that the sound was making me flash back to the day before...
I'd been in the room with a chronically ill patient, in the ICU. Once again, we were all gowned up in our banana-colored reverse paper bathrobes, making us look both serious and ridiculous. A doctor was there doing a test where he had to use a long wand with a camera at the end to look into the child's sinuses. Given her condition, it was terribly painful for her. Another doctor, who had just happened to stop by, was in the back giving him advice. The child life specialist and the child's mother both held her hands and kept up a stream of encouraging (and distracting) words to help her through it. He couldn't get the scope up there, and we all dawdled through an agonizing 3 minutes of waiting for the nurse to get some forceps. He extracted a giant booger, and, in a classic "Scalpel!" moment, tried to hand the forceps (and their disgusting prize) to me. I drew back. More than being grossed out (which, YEAH, gross), I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the thing. He looked confused. The RN stepped in to save me. Thank God!
He continued his procedure. I couldn't keep my eyes or my mind off of what it must feel like to be that little kid. But this guy clearly considered everyone in the room to be there for him, because next thing you know he was asking Mom to push a button on his fancy machine. I didn't know if I should be impressed by the way he was drawing us all in, turning us into a team, or angered by his self-absorption.
And all through it, Mom and the CLS are holding the patient's hands, trying to draw her focus:
"No te muevas, no te muevas!" (Don't move, don't move!)
"Just hold my hand. Deep breaths. Think of the beach. Think of being at the beach with your mom, and your baby sister..."
"No te muevas, que si no te va a lastimar." (Don't move, otherwise it will hurt)
In time with their entreaties, the doctor kept using the suction valve. At one point, he couldn't see once he got the camera into the sinuses either, and ended up sticking it up through her nose into her sinus cavities, where it made the terrible squelchy sucking noises suction valves make when they do find a fluid to clean up.
That one encounter took the wind out of me yesterday. It was absurd, and horrible, and chaotic, and so mundane.
She was so sick, and miserable, and there were so many doctors and nurses poking and prodding her, like it was a matter of course. The juxtaposition between Mom's threatening "comfort" and the CLS's attempts to distract and calm the child nearly drove me up a wall. How could I interpret this to the CLS so it would communicate and not just add to the chaos? Was it worth trying? Would it change anything? I tried. Was she even listening? Add in the terrible sucking noises of the suction. The whole scene was frenetic and absurd and terribly serious. I couldn't figure out how, but I know I could've laughed at the whole thing if it hadn't been so gut-wrenching.
So there I am in the dentist's office, listening to the suction and suddenly thinking, "It's good to be in the patient's chair sometimes, to remind me what this feels like. I wish I had some hands to hold, too. Instead I'll try to hug myself with my own arms, my climber's arms that won't reach round my waist, but can hold on to my sides as if they were a medium edge on a wall... Oh WHAT is he doing in there? Be careful!!"
At least she had someone holding her hands.
At least I'm not real sick, just in need of a quick filling.
I guess we all have things to be grateful for.
