Wake-up call

Jackson was scheduled to get his four month shots over a week ago, but he woke up last Monday with a fever and his first cold. After eight days of sneezing, coughing and not a whole lot of sleep, we went in for his shots today. I spent all day dreading it. I remembered too well what happened last time and was wishing he was old enough that I could bribe him with a McDonald's sundae, as mom used to do with me if I was good while I was getting shots.

When we got up to the second floor, I realized I had forgotten something in the car. I asked the receptionist if I had a few moments before we were called, and he suggested they keep Jackson while I ran down to get it. When I returned, Jackson was holding court in the waiting room with three nurses, the scheduler and even a pharmaceutical sales rep crowded around his car seat watching him laugh and giggle for everyone. Must have been a slow afternoon in the office.

This time, the shots were a piece of cake. (As one of the nurses said, "With those thighs, he probably won't even feel them.") We were in and out in 20 minutes. He hadn't shed a tear.

On our way out of the building, I was feeling particularly euphoric. Our little boy had charmed the whole office, he wasn't fazed by the shots, and we were heading home on a beautiful spring day for a few hours of playtime before bed. I couldn't believe I'd spent much of the morning with a pit in my stomach thinking about this.

When I pushed the down button on the elevator, it opened instantly. A mother and her son - about six years old, give or take - had stepped in right before us and were taking the elevator down as well. She wrapped her arms around him and asked in the world's most cheery tone if he wanted to stop for Chick Fil A on the way home. Oh good, I thought, it's still ok for moms to bribe their kids for behaving at the doctor.

I smiled at the little boy, and instantly did a double-take. He was tall, but appeared fragile. His Superman t-shirt and blue pants were hanging off his wiry frame. He seemed tired. His pale blond hair was fuzzy, and growing back in patches. It was then I connected the dots: Our pediatrician's office shares a floor with the Children's Center for Cancer.

As I held on tightly to our perfectly healthy, giggly kid, I snuck a glance at this mother. She seemed so put together given that she was clearly dealing with the absolutely agonizing uncertainty and pain that must come along with having a seriously ill child. She's got far more strength than I ever will.

Suddenly, dreading two shots seemed like the most significant waste of time in the world.