"When we went to Boston in February Max fell and hit his head. I spent the whole trip yelling at Max to get down off of the snow piles because he was going to fall and I didn't want to spend part of my trip at Mass General, and what happens, my mom sends me off to take the boys skating in Boston Common two hours before we're supposed to leave and Max falls and hits his head. He seemed ok at the time and during the walk back to the hotel, but at lunch things started heading south. He was a little groggy and then fell asleep at the table, but Max has a history of falling asleep in fine dining establishments and he had been up very late for several nights in a row. Then on the way to the airport he said he felt nauseous. I tried to put the windows down in the cab, but the child locks were on. I asked the driver to turn them off. He did, very briefly, long enough to put the windows down about 2 inches. I thought "hey, if this kid yaks in your cab, buddy, it's all on you." I guess it was the driver's lucky day since we pulled up to the airport with no upchuck incidents. No, that didn't happen until we were waiting at the gate. Max was laying down when I had the bright idea of giving him a ginger pill to calm his stomach. When he sat up to take it though, he had that horribly pained look on his face that every mother knows means a copious amount of vomit is imminent. I quickly scanned the area for a suitable recepticle. I found a trashcan about four feet away, next to a businessman eating a muffin, and ran over to take the top off since the hole was way too small for a panicky, regurgitating eight year old to navigate. Oddly enough, there was no top, it was just one large cover piece for a smaller ugly trashcan beneath. But my mommie superhuman strength kicked in and I was able to wisk it off deftly despite its great size and bulk. Max was mere moments behind and, really, his timing could not have been any more perfect since he projectile vomited almost the exact distance to the now awaiting smaller ugly trash can. About ninety percent made it in, the remaining ten ran down the side. I was pretty pleased with the percentages, considering the timeframe we were working in. I'm guess that the businessman was not all together happy with the situation seeing as he decided to take himself and his muffin elsewhere. Since there was some mess to be dealt with, I went over to the woman behind the counter and told her what happened. "He doesn't have anything contageous does he?" she snapped. "Nope, just a concussion." I tried to say casually, so I wouldn't cause any more alarm. She was eyeing me incredulously when I looked over and saw Max giving me the thumbs up, "I feel a lot better now!" After a nap on the plane, he seemed right as rain and the Kaiser advise nurse agreed with me. No need to do anything more than watch him for a couple nights. Then Natasha Richardson hit her head and died. Shortly after that Max started getting headaches. Of course, I panicked and rushed him the doctor, who assured me that any headaches he's having now could not possibly be related to a head injury that happened over a month ago. "But I am wondering about these swollen lymph nodes," the doctor said "if they don't go away in a week, bring him back in and we'll test him for mono." Great. So a week passes, the nodes are still swollen and Max practically begs to take a nap one day, so I took him in. Not until we were waiting at the elevator did Max realize what was about to happen. "Mom, do they need blood for the test?" When I answered "yes", the water works came on and the whining started too. I bet no one has ever heard an eight year old boy beg to go to school with so much fervor. When we arrived at the lab, it was all I could do to persuade Max to get off the elevator. I realized quickly I was going to have to bring out the big guns. I called Daddy. I was sure I was going to need some muscle to hold the boy down for this extraction, since eight year old boys, like people on PCP and mothers who lift cars off of their children, have the strength of ten men. Unfortunately, Andy had a meeting and would never make it in time, but he was able to talk Max down to a level where he could sit calmly in a chair without muttering "I can't, I can't, I can't." It seemed as if we may have turned a corner, when they called his name, Max actually stood up, but then he froze right where he stood. I had to stand behind him and start walking, using my body to push his along, sort of like herding cattle. Then we got to the doorway and he managed to get a death grip on the door jamb that was nearly impossible to pry loose. After cajoling, threatening and a little bit of cursing, I finally got him into the room. A woman directed us to cubicle two. Max began to wail. Then she directed us to cubicle four. Cublicle four being for the more difficult patient, which Max more than qualified as. We eventually made our way to down to our awaiting phlebotomist and things seemed to be improving, when Max started to hyperventilate and got the vomit look. Being a medical facility there was an easy to reach recepticle right next to us, Max leaned over and spit and cried into it, but, thankfully, no vomit came. Our phlebotomist really was a pro, she got Max to stand up, quit hyperventalating and even sit in the chair, but once she put the rubber band around his arm, it all started again. Desperately, I tried to shield his eyes and distract him with playing Connect Four on my phone. He wasn't having it and the phlebotamist knew it. She decided to get this fiasco over with and take the bull by the horns. She just put the needle right in, bang, first shot, proving she was given cubicle four for a reason. I knew she was a pro. Immediately, all the hystrionics ended and Max looked right at me and said "Oh, that wasn't bad" but I'll bet you cash money right now that the next time he needs blood drawn he won't remember that at all.
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