Immunisations, Blood Test & A Surgical Consult

A while ago we had an appointment with Frankie's occupational therapist and one thing in particular that she said stuck with me. "How can we expect her to heal from all that she's been through, and begin trusting people again, when the medical trauma is ongoing?" Today was a stark reminder of that. For Frankie, a distrust of people in general runs deep and it is because, in her short little life, so many of them have hurt her.

Today we had a couple of immunisations to catch up on thanks to being in hospital last month when they were actually due. Our lovely Irish nurse was there and Frankie, for the first time ever, didn't throw up as a result of getting so upset from the jabs. What a proud moment.

After a nap we were off to the hospital. Something had shown up in Frankie's bloods a while back and, as much as we had been delaying it, we needed to get it checked again.

I suggested to the nurse that, in the past, finding a vein in tiny Frankie had proven difficult. That she has a habit of getting so upset that she vomits her tube out. That, if we couldn't do a heel prick, maybe a finger prick would still be better than trying to find a vein. But no. Apparently the pathologists knew best. Except, they didn't. While they told me that doing it their way would be much faster and much less stressful for Frankie, it was not. It really, really, really was not.

As soon as the two women even looked at Frankie she was crying. We were in a hospital so she was on high alert anyway. Add to that a couple of masks and things were pretty triggering for the poor kid. I imagine when they pulled that band tight around her upper arm she was taken immediately back to the last time she was cannulated. She thrashed and began screaming immediately. I watched as the woman poked around inside the crease of Frankie's elbow with a needle. And she poked. And poked. And poked. Frankie was now vomiting from all the crying and still, she poked and poked and poked. She moved the needle around inside her arm, seemingly determined not to be proven wrong by the parent who bloody well told her that this wasn't going to work. Eventually she gave in and removed the needle only to inform me that she would now like to try the other arm. Thankfully after seeing how small Frankie's tiny veins were, she admitted defeat and succumbed to a finger prick. I held Frankie on my lap as the screaming, thrashing, retching and vomiting continued while they pricked her finger and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed to fill two vials with blood. It took forever! Her arm looked like a crime scene by the time they were done but when they suggested sticking around to wash it clean, I grabbed Frankie and walked on out of there. After all, we had a surgical consult to get to. It never ends.

Thanks to our old friend 'medical trauma' Frankie cries as soon as we go anywhere near a consult room in the Outpatients Department. So, she made a cameo appearance but basically Chris and I took turns chatting with the surgeon about the different options we had for Frankie moving forward. In short...there's no right answer. No sure path. And a lot being left up to us, which is really hard when all you want is a medical professional to tell you how to fix your kid.

What a shitty day. In more ways than one. I just can't wait for a time that Frankie's medical trauma is no longer ongoing so she can begin to heal from all that she has been through, and will continue to go through. She honestly looked like the walking wounded by the end of today and the comments like "Oh, the poor little darling," combined with pity and sadness in strangers' eyes really did nothing to make me feel any better. In fact, they just made me remember that Frankie really is doing it pretty tough.

Post Script: Her loom-band bracelet is courtesy of a 10 year old kid at our climbing gym who picked out the colours and measured her wrist and made it especially for her. She bloody loves it.