Laughter in the Waiting Room

We spend a lot of time in waiting rooms these days.  I remember that waiting for doctor's appointments was truly excruciating when Alex was younger.  As a toddler, I would work to keep him distracted and within arm's reach.  He had no fear and would wander anywhere, so I could never be one of those parents who read a magazine and assumed their child would remain nearby.  In the waiting room of our family doctor, there was a play area for the little ones.  It held a big toy box with lots of donated toys.  Jessica and Alex loved those toys!  I cringe to think about it now.  All the sick children playing with the same germ-infested toys.  What were we thinking?  But the toys kept them occupied.

After the toddler stage, he became more anxious about waiting at the doctor's office.  By the time he was about 9 or 10 he would have a full-blown panic attack.  His pulse would race, his blood pressure would rise, and he'd develop a rash over his face, neck, and arms.  I'd sing to him, read to him, play games with him - anything to calm and distract him.

John and I used to say, "What would we do if Alex ever had a serious medical issue?  How would he handle it?  How would we cope?"

At about the age of 13 he had a bump on his knee.  It was a benign bone tumour called an osteochondroma.   He had it removed in outpatient surgery.  He did very well.  The doctor recommended crutches or a walker for post-surgery.  Even though insurance would pay, I didn't want to buy a device that I wasn't sure Alex would use.  Our friend, who is a PT, was able to borrow a walker for him.  When they were getting ready to release him a few hours after his surgery, we tried to show him how to use the walker so that he wouldn't have to put all his weight on the leg he'd just had operated on.  I demonstrated.  Alex watched.  Then he took the walker, lifted it up, and carried it across the hospital room while he walked.  So much for that experiment. Good thing we didn't buy one.

When Alex was 19 he had to have his wisdom teeth out.  We were hoping to avoid that, too, but he got an infected tooth while we were in California visiting Jessica.  Jeanne was staying with him and called us because he had a red, inflamed cheek.  She got antibiotics from the dentist and we made an appointment with an oral surgeon for as soon as we got back.  The oral surgeon did the surgery under general anesthesia.  It went well.

Thank goodness, we thought.  These things went well.  Just enough so that Alex has some experience under his belt, but hopefully nothing worse will happen.

Don't mock the universe.  It never goes well.

In the last three months there have been so many doctors and doctor's visits, so many waiting rooms, and so many facilities.  We cope with laughter. 

A dark sense of humour can be really helpful.  (A gentleman got on the elevator after us last week.  "What floor?" I asked.  "Four," he replied.  "That's good, " I said.  "We're going to two, and you sure don't want to go to two if you can help it.  That's oncology."  He just pretended I wasn't there.)

We travel in packs with Alex.   A couple of times it's just been John or I with Alex at an appointment, but usually it's both of us and perhaps one or more other people.  Sometimes it's Jessica, or someone from Alex's house, or Allison.  Last time Jessica was home, we all went to Alex's blood draw.  There were five of us, gathered in the corner of the waiting room.  I don't remember what we were talking about, but we were loud and laughing and just being kind of ridiculous.

At chemo last week, John and Allison were having a debate about something.  There was good-natured, sibling bickering going on.  They're going back and forth, and laughing, and arguing.  The nurses' station is right outside our door, and I see them peering in, smiling and laughing at us.  I don't think they know what to make of us.

Laughing is our way of coping.  Alex has become really good at waiting.  He is patient.  He is usually anxious, but he works so hard.  I don't think most people understand what it takes out of him to go through these appointments and procedures.  Sometimes there's a lot of rocking and some vocalizing.  We remind him not to get too loud but it is what it is.  I don't care what people think about his rocking or the sounds he makes.  He's coping the best that he can.  He's coping with waiting, with uncertainty, and with cancer.  And he's coping with a goofy family; maybe that's the hardest thing of all.