When your child steps into the lab for a blood draw, you have two choices. Stay, which results in helping to hold them down for what they view as torture. Or leave the room and let the nurses handle it.
I never leave.
After the struggle, Justin hit me several times in anger over the betrayal. And I just let him.
You can judge me for that. And people do. Or we could take a minute to try and understand what it’s all really like.
Justin has been needle-stabbed literally hundreds of times. A six-year-old doesn’t grasp that pain can be for a good cause.
The child psychologist and social worker tell you that all the rules need to be the same. Achieving normalcy is the best thing for the childhood cancer patient.
There is nothing normal going on in his body, his mind, his emotions. Nothing normal at all. So I could pretend, and unfairly expect him to live up to standards which he can’t possibly.
Or I can meet him where he is.
A child with a learning disability needs to be accommodated. A child with a chronic illness does, too.
If Justin hits his brother over a toy, he is disciplined. If he hits me while practically blind with pain and rage, I ignore it.
Balance. I think so anyway.
Still muddling through the parenting a child with cancer thing. It’s a murky, slimy swamp. And I only hope in wisdom from God not to sink in it.
Justin’s blood counts are stable, and there’s a plan in place to hopefully manage recent side effects. Leaving for Give Kids the World, a Make-A-Wish Foundation resort in Kissimmee, Florida, in twelve days.
Yes, we have a countdown. Here’s a happier picture of Justin opening the wish packet. Grace be with you, my friends.