A couple of weeks ago my daughter contracted a stomach virus. At first, I was exasperated because school has just stated and this was her second illness. Then she started to scream in agony from stomach pains and I started to grow concerned. After calling the doctor we found our fears were warranted when he told us to go immediately to the ER.

                So we bundled her up and took her to a local afterhours clinic, because kids never get this sick during working hours. No, they have to wait until at least 11:00 PM to get sick, break a bone or need stitches. It’s like their little bodies have an internal alarm that only goes off when it’s most inconvenient to everyone involved. Either that or it’s their own way to get revenge on us for limiting their video game time.

                We were lucky enough to get a bed right away and the doctor came immediately in. After her examination, she ran down the number of tests. It was long, but only one stood out like a neon light, “BLOOD WORK”. I knew then that we were not in for a good time. Sure enough as soon as they came at her, daughter let loose a scream that would have made Jamie Leigh Curtis proud. It wasn’t just the volume, but what she was saying too. “Are you trying to kill me?”

                Mind you, this was just a tiny butterfly needle they were using. My daughter is nothing, if dramatic. I think she has a great future as a soap opera star. As soon as the yelling started, in came the troops. Swooping down on her like SWAT team, every available nurse and doctor came to hold her down. I have to hand it to my daughter she put up a good fight. Not even I knew she could kick that hard. After they left she looked down at her wrist and sniffed.

                “I think they took all the blood out of my hand,” she complained as she touched the Band-Aid.

                “I’m sure you’ll be okay,” I replied.

                “They’re evil.” She shot daggers at the nurses who were all huddled around the nurse’s station, no doubt saying the exact thing about her.

                “They’re just trying to help.”

                “By killing me?” she asked, refusing to give up that accusation.

                I didn’t bother arguing with her, instead handing her a book to read. We had a few moments of peace until the nurse came in and delivered the next bombshell. They needed a clean urine sample. Handing me a cup the size of a thimble she told me to take daughter into the bathroom.

                “No thank you, I don’t have to go,” daughter said, not even looking up from her book.

                “As soon as you do you can go home,” the nurse assured her. “All your other tests look good.”

                I don’t know who looked more relieved about her going home, my daughter or the nursing staff.

                So that was how I found myself crouched down on the clinic’s bathroom floor as I held a cup just right so we could get that sample. Problem was daughter hadn’t been lying, she really didn’t have to go. No matter how hard she tried. After ten minutes, I gently suggested that we take a break and try a drink of water. As we were walking back to our room, Miss. Diva started up again.

                “What if I can never go pee? We will be here forever!” She even bit her knuckle at this point.

                I heard chuckles from several of the other beds, letting me know that at least we were cheering up the other patients. One elderly lady was laughing so hard, she almost fell out her bed. Even the nurses and doctors were entertained.

                One hour later, she finally was able to give the sample, somehow managing to hit my hand and the cup at the same time. As I thoroughly washed up, I thought that one Mother’s Day a year just wasn’t enough for all we put up with.

                Good news is that she’s okay and she’s even back at school. Bad news she now has a cold. Maybe it’s time to fit her for a bio-hazard suite.

-Stephani