My mother likes to tell people stories about how, when I was small, it would take five adults to hold me down at the doctor's office if I was about to get a shot or a blood draw. The fear still lingers, but I have learned to willingly submit, even when I know its going to make me feel nauseated, break out in a cold sweat, and probably fall over. (This is why I'm more than six months late for my six month dental checkup, why I hate to see my doctor even though I love him and why I frequently turn pale when my father takes his blood sugar or gives himself an injection. Urp.)
My children have inherited my fear of shots. Amazon Girl outdid me by miles during her preschool years, though she's much better now. At her most recent checkup she needed four vaccines. I requested they give her two and have us come back for the others -- I don't like having that many done at a time. She sat still for them, but she was super mad at me - I didn't realize when I made the appointment that she would need shots and therefore didn't warn her ahead of time. After I bought her a treat to compensate for her suffering, the lightbulb in her pointy little head went off and now I'm bound by contract for a trip to the ice cream parlor when the next two shots are given.
Race Car Man, on the other hand, still requires far more than a bribe. He came home early from school yesterday. Rather, the school nurse called and said to send someone to come get him right away as he had appeared in her office with pinkeye. Joy! Cue the dark thunderclouds and Wagner, because any condition that requires the application of anything - particularly in something as sensitive as an eyeball - falls unti the category of Things That Are Traumatic.
The pinkeye doesn't look like its a raging case. so I opted not to bother the doctor and dug out the antibiotic drops from the last round of the dreaded eye crud. I showed him the little bottle and asked him to stop what he was doing so I could put some into his eye, which immediately resulted in screaming so loud you'd think I'd set the little bugger on fire. I quickly decided that rather than engage in a wrestling match, I'd try again later. 'Later' turned out to be a text to his dad as he was on his way to pick the kids up: I'm sending some drops for _____'s eye. He wouldn't let me put any in."
Ex: So he hasn't had any yet?
Me. No.
If dead silence on the other end translates tone, I'm pretty sure he's plotting his revenge. I deserve it.
I don't blame it entirely on the autism, but I will say that having a child with sensory issues makes certain things much more difficult. Pills, for instance. He can't swallow pills. Or at least he thinks he can't swallow pills, which is pretty much the same thing. Textures are another thing, but the absolute worst is anything that requires him to submit to something being done to him. The dentist, the doctor, a sliver in the finger or a scrape needing to be washed out -- all of these things require the person attending him to have cat-like reflexes, the ability to lift and secure the equivalent of an 8 armed chimpanzee and the patience of Job. I still recall the first time the nurse at the doctor's office wanted to take his blood pressure. When we finally got his fingernails pried out of the ceiling tiles we gave up because it was a sure bet any reading we got at that point would be abnormally high. Mine was, at any rate.
My good friend whose son not only has an autism diagnosis but also has a congenital heart defect deals with this but multiplied by an easy thousand. I not only don't envy her, whenever her son has to go for tests or a procedure I want to give her a trophy and a bottle of vodka. They make it through, and so through our small challenges do we.
Its one of the harder aspects of parenting for me, that situation when I have to ask my child to tolerate something that hurts or causes them discomfort, especially if I'm asking them to deal with something I can barely deal with either. Do you suppose that if we'd had an inling that parenting came with an honorary degree in greased pig wrestling we might have at least had a moment or two of doubt about the whole thing?
