One thing the doc said just before we left was that the office would need to periodically take blood samples from Isabella to check that, I don’t know, it was still red or something. I had been warming up to the idea of the medication, then this hammer blow. Many of you out there would probably have experienced the same feeling that I did upon hearing that. On the other hand, for those of you with children who, when taken to the doctor, do not ask “Am I going to get a shot?” over 50 times and who do not have a bone-chilling fear of blood – anyone’s blood –, I’ll try to describe how it feels to learn that a doctor is not only going to stick a needle in your terrified child’s arm, they’re also going to leave it there for a bit while they swap out vacuum tubes which will slowly fill with her life blood in painful visual detail.

As a lover of analogies, I’ll throw one out that approximates the feeling of learning about something this heinous following so closely after something positive. Picture yourself leaving a good restaurant with a full belly. You’re content with the meal, though a bit pained by the increase in your MasterCard debt that the meal caused. You rub your belly and think about how great the food was. Whistling quietly to yourself, you walk across the lit parking lot to your car, pause to smell the blooming honeysuckle, reach for the door handle, and then your stomach explodes. Just before you lose consciousness, lying on your back amidst the carnage, you see blurry images of hissing cobras and scrabbling scorpions and fire-breathing saber-toothed hamsters pouring out of your gut, a gut which is now gaping open like a Jason’s Deli baked potato. (CARRIE EDITORIAL COMMENT: And to think he wonders why Madeline is so dramatic!) So maybe a bit like that.

One thing led to another, and then I wrote this blog.

Flashing back a few things, but not so far as to go back to the first appointment, we found ourselves driving around in separate cars looking for the torture clinic that would take the blood. We were confused, Google Maps was confused, and we were continually rounding a traffic circle like the Griswolds. “Look kids, Big Bend! Parliament!” (CARRIE EDITORIAL COMMENT: Just keep moving… nothing to see here.) Carrie finally called the place, and an oh-so-nice receptionist (note the biting sarcasm, quite hard to represent textually) said it’s right there, you big idiot. And it was. The building was completely unmarked, or so we thought until we parked, got out of our cars, and then walked up close enough to the building to see the numbers glued to the bricks directly behind an evergreen live oak tree in front. Hiding in plain sight… very clever of them.

Here’s the part that still makes me shake and tear up (as in eye tears, not as in getting ripped up like the above graphic analogy) when I think about it. We hadn’t told Isabella where we were going. We’d done that sort of thing before. You know… prepare them for upcoming changes? That sort of thing? The thing you’re supposed to do with children like ours who aren’t keen on schedule changes? Well, some kids are also not keen on having foreknowledge of upcoming brutality and will anguish on that thought for every waking moment. So we made that decision.

Poor Isabella was so happy, so unaware. It breaks my heart even to think about it. She figured it out right before it happened. I still remember her quivering on my lap as I held her still. But the receptionist/nurse was skillful (and nicer in person), and Isabella was brave. Three vials later, and we were done.

Or so we thought. The nurse handed us a drinking cup whose true purpose was written in code on the side: “urine sample.” Huh? Nobody told us about this. Isabella hadn’t had a drink since the night before, as directed. Well, we gave it a try (well, actually just she did) and no go. We grabbed some water for her (in a different cup, I might add – one without any writing) and went out into the waiting room to, you know, wait. A few minutes later, we heard some screaming from the office, a door open and close, a long pause (we didn’t technically hear that part), and then the door open and close again. A few seconds later, a girl of about Isabella’s age and her mother came out. The mother held a cup with writing on it and the daughter held a cup with water in it.

The race was on.

Nature gave us a ring first. Isabella went back there and did the task assigned while Carrie assisted with the, er, collection part. I did a fantastic job waiting by the door to take down any intruders. Then it was over.

Almost again.

Isabella wanted the tape off of her arm. We replaced it with a band-aid. She wanted that off. We took that off too. Then she just wanted to go to school. Even school was better than that place.

All I have to say is: that medicine had better do wonders!