I used to frequent hospitals and clinics myself when I was a little boy. I didn't go there for the pretty nurses, the free lollipops or even the free balloons. I too shared a similar past as to my son's current condition. I developed a rare form of kidney ailment in which the only way was to manage it was with potent medicines and the hope for a cure was time. No medicine and by the luck of the seventh year, if the disease does not recur then a complete healing can be pronouced. I didn't know about the seven-year rule but I am glad to find out that I actually qualified to make that pronouncement 15 years ago. Once during my teen years, I almost beat the seven year marked only to find out on the exact day of my seventh year anniversary, my kidney ailment came back. My son is currently battling a kidney disease that shares the same root as mine but is undetermined whether it will yield the same type of fruit.
Each time, I visited the hospital, it was a routine procedure. I stuck my hands out and two to three young pretty nurses would stuck a giant needle in to my veins in an attempt to draw blood. I later nicknamed these young girls as draculas since they loved my blood so much. I used to come home with my arms full of bandaids and blood bruises especially if I had to spend a few days in the hospital. I was too young to remember my very first time staying in the hospital since I was only two. I must have outgrown the anxiety of getting stuck by needles since my memory does not include screaming, struggling and yelling when they stuck me with needles. My memory seems to only date back to the three young draculas but then why would there be three of them instead of just one since it does not take three to stick a needle in to my arm. I guess I altered a little of my memory, the other two nurses had to hold me down or somehow distract me with lollipops or balloons.
My son just came out from the hospital last week in which he spent 5 days recovering. He had another episode and this marked the fourth hospitalization in the last two months. This is a frustrating disease that sometimes make you think you are on track to recovery but out of nowhere it ambushes you like a terrorist. My son came home with poke marks all over his arms just like mine. Each mark was a battle and each battle he fought hard. I sympathesize with him and I know exactly what he goes through in his mind. I re-live this part of my childhood with him each time. It is such a helpless feeling to see your son getting hurt and you can't do anything about it. I can't help but to see his eyes fill with tears looking at me and as if he is saying to me with those eyes..daddy why do you let them poke me. My heart is poked so badly each time when that happens. The following clip is about how to bring a child some hope in there moments of despair. Be touched!