There’s a certain kind of helplessness that comes with watching your child go through something painful when you know it’s necessary, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Recently, I had to take Kay back in for more bloodwork. We had already gone the month before, but because there was a limit on how much blood they could take at one time, they weren’t able to complete all of the labs her endocrinologist requested. So after trying to mentally prepare both of us all over again, we went back to finish what was left.
Unfortunately, this visit went even worse.
Kay has always been a hard stick, and after searching for a vein for what felt like forever, they finally managed to get just enough blood for one test. Since there was still more that needed to be done, they asked if they could try her other arm so we could hopefully avoid putting her through another appointment entirely. I agreed, hoping maybe we could just get it over with in one visit.
But they couldn’t get blood from the other arm either, and in the process, they blew her vein.
As her mom, there’s nothing that prepares you for moments like that. Having to help hold your child still while they cry, while they look at you confused and hurting, while you try to reassure them through your own tears. It’s one of those experiences that people don’t really see when they think about chronic medical care. They see the appointments, the diagnoses, the medication schedules. They don’t always see the emotional weight of it all.
And Kay… she is so unbelievably strong.
Stronger than any little girl should have to be.
Every time she has bloodwork done, I find myself wishing I could explain it in a way that would fully make sense to her. I hope that as she gets older, she’ll understand why we have to do these things, even when they hurt. Right now, all she knows is that she’s scared and uncomfortable, and I know she looks to me to make it better. That’s the hardest part. Knowing I can comfort her, but I can’t always protect her from it.
So for now, we take another break. We breathe a little. We let this experience settle before trying again so we can hopefully finish the bloodwork that still needs to be done.
I hate that she has to endure so much at such a young age. But if there’s one thing Kay teaches me over and over again, it’s that strength does not always look loud or fearless. Sometimes it looks like a little girl wiping her tears, taking a shaky breath, and trying again anyway.