The Silent Treatment

Yesterday was the second infusion of b-plasma and immunoglobulin for my 7-year old son. The first one went HORRIBLY bad. He had a terrible reaction and we got to spend Thanksgiving in the company of our pals in the hospital. He vomited for 13 hours, had a terrible headache and hurt everywhere.

Needless to say, we are scarred. Our stomachs churned at the thought of another one.

Every month.

But the day came...and we didn't tell him until the day before (why ruin his Christmas?). He was like, "Oh, ok."

Armed with movies, DS games, books and board games, we marched into the hospital for round #2 yesterday. He was great until it was time for the needle to go in. Using sonosite technology, they found a vein on the first try. Easy peasy. And then it blew. His arm swelled up and he decided his stomach couldn't handle this.

After finding a new vein and getting the line going, he settled in for a very long day...along with cookies and milk and loads of affection doted on him by his nurses. For nearly the first hour of this long day, he sat silently, staring at the TV.

"How are you?" daddy and I would ask. Nothing. "Are you ok?" No response. "Do you want anything." Glares and stares. No words. "We're sorry. This really will make you better. You just have to get through the unfun stuff first to see the good parts." Still no words.

So there we sat in silence, too Him in anger. Me in panic. My husband in fear. Are we doing the right thing? The protocol says "The doctor prescribed this medication because he believes the benefits outweigh the risks." But do they? Will he look back on this time and hate us? Hate doctors? Hate medicine? Will he remember having to spend his Thanksgiving AND Christmas break in the hospital, because we didn't want him to miss school? Will he ever understand the financial burden and sacrifice we endured to provide this to him when insurance scoffed at us, because we love him so much it hurts? Will he actually get better, or just stay the same and have added days of sickness thrust on him? Will our daughter hate us for spending these days in the hospital with him and leaving her with family instead of being with her ourselves? Will our bosses continue to understand and be compassionate? These are the thoughts in my head as I endure the silent treatment.

Last night, he came up to me as I sat at the island eating supper while he vegged on the couch. "I love you so much," he said. My little man, with hives and spots on him while his medicine absorbed, is so beyond his years.

This young man means the world to me. It feels like God actually ripped a rib out of me and made this child. Loving him is so easy. Dear God, why is parenting him so hard?