Needles and Fingers

Michael had to have his blood drawn Saturday. We have to do this twice a year so the neurologist can be sure his anti-seizure medication is at the right level. Hopefully by the end of next summer he can be done with it entirely.

Michael was very brave getting his blood drawn. He usually is; I don’t know where he gets his fearlessness, but it certainly wasn’t from my genetic contribution. Both of the technicians who did the blood draw said that Michael could teach some adults how to take a poke. He can watch the needle being shoved into his vein and offer little more than a slight "ouch." Not even a wince, to say nothing of a tear.

But it was his insistence that everyone admire the owie he’d gotten the other day that really took the cake. I don’t really remember how he got it, but on that finger was a half-inch long slice as though he’d raked it across a sharp point. Most of the owies he gets are totally mysteries: suddenly his mom or I will notice a fresh cut or bruise where we hadn’t seen one before, with no known cause. When asked about it, Michael usually says “I got a owie,” and leaves it at that.

So this day, probably because he was in a hospital with lots of doctors and nurses and assistants who’d probably feel sympathetic toward his grievous wound, he decided to make it known to everyone within line of sight as we made our way from the information desk to the outpatient services lab.

He held up high his hand with the owie-fied finger extended, saying loudly “Look, I got a owie!”

The owie was on his middle finger.

Yes, sweet little innocent, blue-eyed Michael was giving everyone in the office the bird.

But they all took it very well. And Michael ended up with two Band-Aids, two stickers and a lollypop, for having to endure two pokes.