Testing
In the “Family Waiting & Play Area” at the children’s hospital, some of the kid-sized chairs have hummingbirds carved into them.
Small, fragile creatures with lots of energy.
There is not a lot of playing going on in the “Family Waiting & Play Area.” Most of the kids are as sedate as their somber parents, even the kids who are not there for treatment themselves.
The TVs are all set to Nick Jr. or Disney channels, showing cartoons you don’t recognize.
The pain scale charts in the hospital do not have a level that shows the face your 4-year old made, crying and screaming, as they stuck the IV port into his hand.
There is no corresponding face on the chart, either, to show the kind of pain a parent feels holding down a sobbing 4-year old while the nurses try to find a vein.
Later, when you check the news on your phone, it’s mostly about whether the government will revoke healthcare for millions of citizens.
Even with having employer-provided insurance, the sticker shock for an MRI and nuclear bone scan is enough to make you feel sick to your stomach. It is awkward negotiating with the intake personnel on how much of the deductible you will pay up front, and how much you will pay later.
The anesthesiologist pegs you for an attorney when you tell him you already read the consent form that describes all the horrible things that can happen to your child, but he claims it was your signature that gave it away. The charts had been sitting there during the hour you waited in the pre-op room, and searching the internet for the meaning behind the crypto-diagnostic codes was more engrossing than the insipid cartoon on the TV that advocated for fire safety while having no qualms about demonstrating the irresponsible use of a 4-wheel drive vehicle and winch to extract a man stuck in a tree stump.
Anesthesiologists always seem like the most well-adjusted doctors, despite what you’ve heard that they have the highest malpractice premiums of any professional.
When the anesthesia kicks in, the doctor tells you, the patient’s eyes stay open. You see later that they tape your child’s eyelids shut, looking like some kind of bizarre funereal rite.
The waiting rooms have touch-screens with quiet games for the sedate kids. You overhear conversations in three different languages that all indicate that things could be much, much worse.
Your phone tells you that the government will not revoke millions of citizens’ healthcare, at least not this week. Your son comes out of the anesthesia without complication, but when you will find out the results of the testing is much more vague and ambiguous.
