We are going to the doctor’s today. It’s just a checkup to see how our son is doing. No shots this time! He’s had a few already but doesn’t need another until he’s one. Thank God. The first time was hell. Even though I wasn’t the one giving the needle, I felt HORRIBLE for inflicting pain on the little guy. Truth be told, he was actually very good. My husband held him for the doctor, in went the needle, and the wailing began. It’s like, “MMMOOOOMMMM! Why did you bring me to this place? I’m scarred now!”. But, it lasted only about five minutes or so and then he was asleep. A little Tylenol later and the little bugger was peaches.
His circumcision is another story. No religious reason behind it. But, we had decided before he was born that it was something we were going to do. I don’t want to get into the reasons why. It was simply a personal choice. So when our son was a couple of days old, I was given a bunch of names from my midwife. After five tries (Doctors never seem to be in their offices. Where are my tax dollars going?), I finally got a hold of someone and made the appointment.
The cost of this procedure? Three hundred dollars. Half went to the hospital. The other half went directly to the doctor – in cash. Talk about being gouged.
We got to the hospital and waited in this desperately cheery room with other parents. It seemed that most of them were there for the same reason. Normally, when unacquainted parents are put in the same room, conversations are easily started. After all, we have something in common. How old is your little one? Is he a good eater? How is he sleeping? But, this time everyone pretty much kept to themselves, as if filled with a sense of foreboding for the pain that was to come.
We were told that the sequence of events was to be like this: Prep with numbing ointment on his pecker. Give a little sucrose solution for the pain. Bring him to the doctor. Snip. Take him back to the waiting room to hang out for a couple of hours. Bring him to a nurse for care instructions and to make sure everything was alright before being sent home. Mazel tov!
Being a nurse himself, my husband wisely suggested that I not bear witness to this particular event. Having a biology background, I’m not a squeamish person when it comes to medical procedures. I can watch any operation. Knee replacement surgery or removal of 60-pound tumour? Bring it on! But, when it comes to my loved ones, I completely wuss out.
After assuring me repeatedly that everything was going to be fine, my hubby took our first-born in. Out in the waiting room I quickly learned that the rooms were not sound-proof. Hello? A mother knows her baby’s cry. And, I definitely heard it. I felt lower than dirt.
A few minutes later my boys came out. “He’s fine”, my husband said. And, he was. Albeit, a little subdued – as if to say, “What did I do? I thought you liked me. Is that what you do to people you don’t like?”. For reassurance, I promptly nursed him. Nothing like boob juice to soothe what ails you. Er….
After checking out, I remembered how much we had paid the doctor and the number of people there getting the same thing done. The doctor made a killing that day. I voiced my indignation to my husband. “That’s OK”, he said, “Our son peed on him anyway”. Brilliant! I was so proud.