As someone who, until recently, hadn't exactly kept up with his regular medical checkups for longer than some people have been alive, I can understand the sense of trepidation surrounding going to a doctor's office to have a stranger do things to you which, in the absence of a medical license, would be a thoroughly inappropriate violation of personal space. I, a rational adult with a fair degree of cognitive ability, am aware that such things are for my own good and I am able to suppress any feelings of irrational fear and discomfort that may be manifesting in my psyche and making me want to either lie on the floor in the fetal position or lash out at the strangers around me like some kind of Neanderthal. Now, let's put a toddler in that same scenario and see how it plays out.
I'm not in the business of advertising, so, as a caveat, let me say that this is not an advertisement of any kind for any specific medical professional, but merely a recognition. I have to say that my wife and I have chosen who we believe to be the best pediatrician in the entire known world. This doctor has been in the game for quite a while and she shows a genuine interest in not only her little patients, but also their parents. In one particular instance, my daughter came down with tonsillitis when she was about a year and half old, and we spent nearly eight solid hours in the medical complex running various tests to pinpoint the issue. The doctor could see the fatigue and wear taking effect on me and actually brought me lunch while I was waiting and took some time to make sure that I was okay. She is a genuinely wonderful person. So, if you're in the L.A. area and are in need of a pediatrician, I would be happy to pass on her info. That being said, it is with the deepest respect that I apologize from the bottom of my heart to her and her staff for any psychological trauma that my daughter may have caused during any of her visits.
A visit to the doctor normally starts out like a visit anywhere my daughter goes: running full speed and leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. "I WANNA SEE THE GOLDFISH" can be heard by anyone in the entire medical complex as we make our way down the hall and toward the doctor's office. No sooner than I can swing open the medieval sized wooden door to the office, my daughter bursts in and leaves a DeLorean style trail of fire behind her as she screams toward the fish tank at the opposite end of the waiting room. A waiting room which is filled with sick children and beaten down parents who track my daughter in bleary eyed amazement as if they're watching a race car power toward the finish line as she runs full speed toward the fish tank screaming, "GOLDFISHES." While intermittently picking her up to see the "goldfish" (which are not actually goldfish as it is a saltwater tank, but my daughter has been lax in her marine biology studies), she feels that it is necessary to try to sit in every single chair in the waiting room (whether it's occupied or not) while simultaneously running from one end of the room to the other. This always makes for some very interesting glances from parents and occasionally a shriek from a less than healthy child who either has never borne witness to or simply cannot fathom a being of that size displaying that much unbridled energy. Needless to say, we aren't very popular in the waiting room.
That all changes, however, when the door opens and the nurse calls out my daughter's name. When we cross the threshold into what a nearly two year old mind must think is the place of nightmares and my daughter sees the nurse, fear and the overwhelming sense of self preservation takes over. This nurse, mind you, is one of the sweetest and kindest people I have ever met, but to a toddler, she might as well be wearing an executioner's hood and carrying a double-sided ax. She has one of the most unfortunate jobs in the world; she has to stab little children with needles and make them cry. At the sight of this harbinger of doom, my daughter usually reacts by shaking her head from side to side and screaming, "NO NO NO NO NO NAAOOOOOOOO" while fighting to climb over my shoulder so she can do a ninja flip onto the floor, run down the hall and dive through the third floor plate glass window in slow motion while simultaneously spinning around and shooting back into the office to make her Matrix style getaway. But, she needs her vaccinations, so I can't let that happen.
As the door to the examination room closes behind the nurse who is holding her little basket of death, my daughter accepts her inevitable fate and realizes that her fighting is futile. The nurse, with all of the sympathy she can muster, administers the injections and slinks away, only to re-emerge sometime in the future when it's time for another visit. As I collect my sobbing daughter and parade her through the admin area to make our next appointment, she is showered with stickers and high fives from the rest of the staff like the tiniest war hero. She waves a teary eyed good-bye to everyone as we leave and knows that she will have to face this foe again...and swears vengeance.
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