I am a stay at home mom. Because of this my family benefits in many ways, one of which is the lack of day-care-facilitated-illness. In our daughters three and a half years of life she has gone to the doctor three times for sick visits.
Let me say that again
three sick visits.
Perhaps it is the irregularity of the visits, perhaps it is the memory of vaccination, or what ever other speculation may apply, she hates going to the doctor. It started when we went for her two year wellness visit. At the time I was quite pregnant, and thrilled that she was finally able to walk on her own. While waiting for our turn, we happily played with puzzles and read a few books. The nurse called her name and she proudly walked to the exam room on her own. Then she was asked to take off her clothes.
A perfectly reasonable request.
Well perhaps reasonable if you are not two.
Little did I know that one simple request would open the door for new and unimaginable levels of embarrassment and frustration for me as a mother.
"Catherine please take off your clothes," I said.
"No. I don't want."
"You must take off your clothes so the doctor can check your body."
"No!"
"It's okay. She can leave on her clothes. Lets see how much she weighs, " said the nurse symatheticly as she walked over to the scale.
"I don't want to! I want to go home!" yelled Catherine much louder this time.
"You get to stand on the big girl scale. Just like at home." I was beginning to panic.
"No! Get me out of here! I want to go home!"
Maximum volume had been achieved. For sure my mother in Kentucky was able to hear her.
"Please, Catherine. All you have to do is stand on the scale." Now I was beginning to beg.
"It's okay, Catherine," said the nurse.
Wrong answer. Well meaning people do this to us all the time. Say something meant to be comforting when I have clearly lost control of my child; however, it always plays out the same way. Tears. Huge, crocodile tears, with screaming. Not even words, just screaming.
She began running down the hall towards the exit.
"Get me out of here! I want to leave! I want to go home!"
"Catherine stop this right now!" I was screaming, too. And at a loss.
Let me take a minute to say, this was not the first public tantrum I have been exposed to as a mother. I am a well seasoned veteran. I have a system for such behavior. A good system that gets me back in control. A good system that works. We stop what we are doing immediately, leave the situation until she is calm and cooperative, then return to do what we set out to do in the first place. However what she wanted was to leave.
Give me just a minute to decide what to do. Everyone was looking. All the doctors, nurses, even other patients were poking their heads out exam rooms.
She started stomping her feet.
"Get me out of here! Now! Get me out of here now!"
Okay, I'll just stick with my plan. My good plan. The one that always works.I swooped her up in my arms, and headed for the car. Arms and legs were swinging, tears were rolling, and words were gone, only blood curling screams remained. And I did mention I was in the third trimester of pregnancy, right? She was strapped into her carseat, still screaming, and I was crying too. I called my husband, he reassured me. Finally, fifteen minutes later she was calm. We went back in.
"Please stand on the scale."
It began again. We skipped the weigh in, and I manually restrained her for as much of the exam as possible. Most of what is supposed to be done was skipped.
This is how every visit has been for the past year and a half. The pediatrician has told me more than once that although this behavior is common at this age, our situation is "extreme" and one of control not fear or anxiety. Lucky me.
Then, a few weeks ago, I worked up the courage to schedule her first
dentist appointment. We read books, we looked at Dr. John's webpage to see pictures of everyone who works there, and talked to all of her friends who have already been to the dentist. She was excited. When the big day came, there was no hesitation. We happily sat in the waiting room watching the fish tank, playing with toys, and chatting with the receptionist. The hygienist called her name, it was time to go back, and it started, the moment I was dreading. The moment for which I had saved up my courage.
"I don't want to. I want to leave."
I picked her up, at least I'm not pregnant this time, and carried her to the exam room.
"Get me out of here. I want to leave!"
Dr. John came in immediately.
"Is this how it goes at the doctor?" he asks. I had told them about our "situation" on the new patient form.
"Yes."
"I have a suggestion. Why don't you leave Catherine with me and Michelle, and wait in the waiting room."
I've tried everything, and nothing works. This is something new, why not give it a shot. So I went. She screamed, and screamed. I could still hear her as I made my way through to the waiting room. The door closed behind me and all was silent. Fifteen minuets later Michelle came out.
"Mrs. Weddendorf, we're all done."
I went back, and there she sat, my daughter, perfectly calm in the chair. Exam complete. What was the secret? Mom may come back when you decide to calm down, and we complete the full exam without kicking, hitting, or biting. Total cooperation achieved. The rest of the day she talked about nothing but Dr. John and how she loved going to the dentist.
So Monday morning of this week she woke up coughing, sneezing, fever of 101.8, and then she vomited. Indeed she was sick, and going to the doctor a necessity. As I sat in the waiting room, son in tow for he was sick also, I was thinking, plotting, planning. When the nurse called us back, Catherine took my hand.
I said to her, "You can do this, I know you can. "
We walked back, there it was, the dreaded scale.
"Lets see how much you weigh," said the nurse.
"I want to leave." She took a step towards the door.
I knelt down. I looked in her eyes and said, "Calm your self down and cooperate. If you do not, I will have to wait in the waiting room like at Dr. John's office."
She stood on the scale.
She
calmly stood on the scale.
She calmly cooperated through the entire exam. She even chatted with the doctor about the name of the tool that looks in your ear (an otoscope) and the artist of the finger paintings on the wall. She left smiling with a sticker for the first time.
A major breakthrough.
