It might be nothing, or it might be something. We won’t know for a couple of days yet, but we are -as the fact that I am mentioning it might hint to all of you- keeping in mind that we might have one more thing to work on…
J had his physical yesterday, and a short appointment became a longer, more complicated one. His blood pressure was high-enough that it warranted double-checking (the first time was done by a student doing her practice.) We ended up what was a rather anxiety-riddled (for J) encounter with the doctor with an EKG and a chest X-ray.
The purpose of the whole appointment was to clear him for surgery later this month, and now we wait for the specialists to determine if we need to scrap that idea, or if we need to dig deeper, or if this was just a misreading, or what.
One of the things that warranted extra attention might/might not be an effect of the long-term use of the Risperdal, and since J had used it for five solid years (albeit at a low dose) and spent some time off it before it was restarted, that could be part of the issue. The other issue seems to be unrelated to the med, and might require a more direct evaluation by a specialist.
The next 36 hours will not be easy to twiddle our thumbs through, wouldn’t you agree? Why is it that you can hear if Beyonce is pregnant and see proof of it all over the world in ten seconds flat, but waiting for a specialist to review your son’s EKG takes about two days? Ah…because the first is not something that has anything to do with your child’s health, your peace of mind, the state of the modern world, social justice, or anything important. What matters takes longer, ages you, robs you of sleep, and makes you go back to peeking in on the kid even though he is an adult who should no longer require that much attention.
But, of course, what I see every time I log on to my computer is Beyonce with a veil, flowers, whatever, and no e-mail from the doctor. When the phone rings it’s the same pre-recorded message from Andre (calling from six or seven different area codes, naturally) asking me to donate to a fake (I checked) charity organization. I still run to the phone in case it’s the doctor, and -being a middle-aged woman who hasn’t really got used to her bifocals- I don’t really look at the Caller ID, or wait for Robot Ernestine to tell me that number that’s calling. (That’s a reference to a Lily Tomlin character…
I know you’re not as old as I am, but feel compelled to use these little things to keep my brain from getting too serious…)
Maybe his blood pressure was up because he was anxious about the appointment. But the EKG noticed something that shouldn’t work the way it does. Of course, a primary care physician has to consult with a cardiologist, and then we go from there. His labs indicate that his red blood cell count is higher than it should be, and that has nothing to do with the pill he takes, but a hematologist has to review the results and then we go from there. So we are on deck to depart in different directions, but we don’t yet have a ticket…how’s that?
It took a while to get him to give in to all the poking and prodding. I had to negotiate, be firm, persuade, cajole, beg, and be firm again. In the end we got it all done, but Dada came to join us at the doctor’s office in case things got testy. Once we were done with the medical aspect of our excursion, I treated J to shopping for his birthday.
We have more train tracks than space, people. And, if I am good at reading my son’s body language, we need more. This might require disassembling and reassembling the whole village. It might also involve moving furniture. Considering that the cold weather has returned and we’re not likely to go anywhere for the next couple of days, this is a productive activity to be engaged in, and if Dada helps J with the new Lego cabin-in-the-woods, we will have yet another building for our little community.
These are the thoughts, concerns, preoccupations, tasks, ideas that presently engage our attention. J is mildly moody today because he got, to top all other injustices heaped on him yesterday, his flu shot. His arm, obviously, will not be tennis- (or laundry-, or help-mother-with-chores-) ready until tomorrow, but it’s a small price to pay. I know he’s recovering still from how overwhelmed he was yesterday, and am giving him space.
Yes, I still go in there and -while lip-syncing to Zero to Hero from Hercules– I check in on him. Yes, I still go squeeze him and hug him, and give him fish kisses that he mock-rejects until he starts giggling and asking for more. Yes, I have the phone next to me…and my reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of my nose to read the screen if I have time.
I am well-aware that there are far worse things parents have to confront when it comes to their children’s health. I don’t think our particular situation is extraordinary or worthy of more attention and empathy. I know this might pass, or not. I do know with certainty that, should it not be “nothing,” we will deal with it…
It’s the waiting, see? It’s the not-knowing. It’s the same thing I used to tell the kids: when you’re scared of something, find out its name…if it doesn’t have one, give it one. Things are less scary when you know what they are…when you can call them by a name, and say ‘well, screw you…so-and-so…’ The first time TGG watched M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs he was tremendously scared…until he saw the monster. It was a tangible thing then, and -let’s face it- kinda silly-looking. He still wanted us to make sure it wasn’t hiding in the bushes outside his bedroom window in our first-floor apartment in Anaheim, but he didn’t feel as overwhelmed as he did when he didn’t know what it looked like. He was no longer uncertain of its appearance…he knew what he needed to look for to see if it really was there.
And that’s all we want. We want to know. Because when you know, well, it is not that you don’t worry, but you know WHAT you are worried about, and WHAT can be done to address it…and isn’t that more productive?