28 October 2007
We have a new problem to tackle. A new ailment. Let’s call it fear of hospitals. It might be because Abbe is of that age where his own will is being developed. The integrity, the self and all those other fancy words which can be sorted under the heading “I can do it myself”. The total integrity is born. It’s bound to play a role anyway.
But, on top of that, Abbe has spent innumerable hours in a hospital. Many tough examinations, tests and restraints. I guess it’s just getting to him.
This has now led to Abbe hardly allowing staff to enter our room. His lower lip shivers and he goes "aj aj aj oj oj aj" as soon as they turn up. Certain examinations are being scrapped, whereas when it comes to others, which must be done, Abbe has to be coaxed into doing them. However, you can’t fool Abbe any longer. He knows the tricks. The crucial medications will have to be taken using gentle force. We’re in a bad spiral.
We’ll have to arrange some kind of therapy, I think. There’s so much more hospital to come for Abbe, he can’t have it this way, poor sod. I was talking a bit to the mother of the girl in the room next to Abbe’s. She had similar experiences, but tried to comfort me by saying “They grow out of it, don’t worry.” Her daughter was eight or nine today, I think.
To make everything less dramatic, we sometimes do the examinations on ourselves, Abbe’s mum and myself. Or on his cuddly toys. Sometimes, Abbe can have a go himself at applying the finger clip oximeter on dad’s finger. Today, he was given a lovely doctor’s bag, courtesy of one of the nurses. You have to try.
Now, Abbe is lying here next to me, snoozing, but it’s a restless sleep, full of dreams. Probably about nurses.