It was Sam’s annual check-up today, an event he’s been preparing for by reading Blue’s Check-up and conducting mock doctor’s appointments for months. He enjoyed himself vastly as they checked his vision and his hearing , weighed him, measured him and produced, as promised, an otoscope and a stethoscope. He was most pleased, and reasonably charming.

Until the medical student and doctor exited, and the nurses arrived. They tried to be nice. One, a gregarious, gigantic guy named Kevin, was magnificent in his purple scrubs and very nearly pulled got a smile out of Sam…but Sam’s attention was focused on those three needles. And then it happened. Without so much as a “one, two, three, pinch!” they hit him in both arms, and there was this pause, when I think we all thought maybe it wasn’t quite so bad, and then he began to wail.
“That hurt! It still hurts! That hurt!” He squealed and began to curl up into a ball, and the urse quickly zinged him again. More wailing.
Even a few minutes later, he was really just a puddle, a pale, watery reflection of his usual self. Did it hurt anymore? No, but clearly something hurt. His faith in the whole doctor business–not to mention Blue, with her “that really wasn’t so bad” was shattered, and he wasn’t really buying the whole “shots keep you healthy” explanation. Picking out the “well visit” book helped very little, and the promise of ice cream, while welcome, did not perk him up.
He fell asleep in the car and stayed asleep, resolutely, soundly, through her nap and well toward dinner–but I had promised ice cream, and what could I do? He wasn’t going to want to wait until after dinner, and I couldn’t blame him. So I loaded up Lily and drove, with Sam snuggled into his carseat, and woke him up when the ice cream was in view.
Shown a new cone with sprinkles, he wailed. Presented with a choice of flavors, he sobbed. I thought he might collapse on the floor–but he still wanted that ice cream. So I handed him a chocolate cone, and as he licked around and and around, solemnly, he slowly regained his grip on the world.
And, for any dietary police who might be reading along, went home and ate his cucumber and pepper salad, hummus and avocado roll supper with nearly as much relish as he tackled the ice cream.

He went off to bed, pleased that we said he’d been brave, but still concerned. More than the shots, I think the violation of trust–that the nurses would hurt him, that I would let them, that he would let them–is still worrying him. He’s nominally entered into that bargain we all make with the medical profession: hurt me a little that I may not hurt more, but he’s not entirely satisfied.
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