Our daughter had some bloodwork done this morning. At the lab, routine panel, relatively simple, done in a jiffy. I just wish we could explain that to her in a way she’d understand.
All she knows is that a couple of ladies with needles and tubes are very interested in her little arm. And the people she loves and trust the most are holding her down so she can’t escape.
Thank you, Lord, for The Wheels on the Bus. We sing it and sing it and sing it again. It’s like a prescription for her, a musical ointment, a melodic opiate. She puts up with the medical stuff for a split second as she tunes in to hear what verse we’re on (wheels? baby? door?) but then it’s back to screaming chaos. She’s happy now because on the car ride to school she listened to Shut Up and Dance With Me, her jam of a lifetime. This song helps her cope and move on.
I suppose this is a strong case for music therapy and a sigh of thankful relief that both Emily and I are music majors. Lately she’s wanted us to sing chords for her. I sing the root (dooooo), Zac the 3rd (doooooo) Mac the 5th (doooooooo) and Emily with the octave/ornamentation (dooooOOOOO) moving between 8, 2, 4, etc. Lexi is fascinated with this and sometimes joins in. When that happens we get overjoyed. Her random note for today was a D that drifted a bit flat and sharp but was remarkably consistent overall. I wouldn’t be surprised if she does play an instrument someday. Even as I see that in print, I doubt, yet something deeper believes.
You know… looking back, we had no idea, my wife and I, that this is what we’d be doing on a Monday morning. Emily, in her rainbow brite hair, walking with our special needs daughter and joined by her large doughy husband for singular crowd control for a blood draw. It’s not usually fun, and it’s not easy to explain to the others in the waiting room. Most days that doesn’t bother us, because you learn over time what actually matters.
We just hope Lexi leaves the bandage on her arm. And keeps singing, too.