As a kid with complex medical issues, J. has been subjected to literally thousands of needle-sticks over the years. As an infant, she'd rail against this invasion in typical baby fashion, with ear-piercing screams, kicking legs and howls of protest giving way to angry sobbing. Around age 3, she became resigned to these incessant pokes, and began calmly holding out her arm for the needle, sometimes even directing the unlucky phlebotomist on how to do the procedure: "Don't do that 1-2-3 thing, it annoys me. And use a little needle, because my veins are really small." Once, after being subjected to multiple attempts to collect blood for labs, she sighed loudly, and exclaimed, "Oh, why don't you just let me do it myself!" She's been described as mature, stoic, patient and brave. Because she's what's politely referred to as a 'difficult stick' (otherwise known as "oh, god, are we even gonna find a vein in this kid??"), she's mastered the art of yoga-breathing her way through the pain of needles in her wrists, thumb, arms, fingers, back and legs. But even she sometimes reaches a limit. And so, when the tears well up, and I know she's inches away from a well-deserved scream-and-cry, when the needle hurts too much and the nurse is on her 10th attempt to find a vein, I tell her that we will "Breathe first, and cry later".
It's a good strategy for me, too, I've discovered. Because while I don't feel the pain of the needle, I feel the pain of not being able to help her, and I worry about what the results might show, what scary bacteria or viruses might show up this time to try and steal my baby from me. And I want to cry, and fall apart, and yell that it's too unfair. And at 3am, when I'm staring at the screen monitoring her vital signs as she lies in the Intensive Care Unit, I want to give in to the panic and weep. First, though, I remember to breathe. To sit, and just be in the moment, however hard it is.
When I can be alone though -- in the hospital bathroom, or the garden, or even in a resident-free stairway -- then I can cry. I cry for her, and all that she suffers. I cry for me, for the overwhelming sense of fear that I live with in those moments. And I cry, too, knowing that this isn't the last time I will have to remember to breathe first...and cry later.
