Tissues At the Doctor’s

When we welcomed Gage into our world, we were introduced to a whole new group of people who became a regular part of our lives as well.  Over the years, we’ve gotten to know Gage’s pediatrician, neurologist, ophthalmologist, audiologists and many more nurses and therapists pretty well. It’s amazing the way so many different people have his best interest at heart and we are so grateful for the excellent care that he receives.

Sometimes I think back to some of the first conversations we had with doctors and nurses. It seems like anyone who knew Gage’s diagnosis wanted to share a story about another kid they knew with CMV who ended up being just fine. I’m not sure I can trust my memory correctly and if that was reality or just what I wanted to hear. Perhaps I was clinging to any hope I could that it would all be ok and Gage would somehow magically outgrow his diagnosis. Maybe those people just wanted to say something comforting in an uncomfortable situation. It made me realize that any pediatric doctor or nurse has a two-fold job.  They are not only experts in their fields, they must also fill the role of counselor to grieving, hurting, confused parents.  While I trust that everyone responsible for Gage’s care is doing their very best for him medically, I’ve witnessed varying degrees of skill with the other part.

I remember one day being at back to back appointments with Gage and I just couldn’t keep myself together. The tears were flowing in the pediatrician’s office and they continued after we had his hearing checked. Both doctors did the same thing – they picked up the box of cheap, crappy tissues that are in every doctor’s office I’ve ever been in, and reached it out towards me. I sniffled and grabbed a couple. I’ve always felt awkward when someone has offered me a tissue when I cry. I feel like they intend for me to politely dab my tears, but I’m usually well past that point and end up loudly blowing my nose instead. Anyways, I don’t know why, but for some reason in both of those instances, that small gesture was so comforting. Like the doctor didn’t know what else to do or say, so they just defaulted to the tissue box move. (I wonder if they teach that in med school?) They didn’t use any words or say anything cliché, they just knew I was sad and they couldn’t change that, so they offered what they could – a crappy tissue. They just let me be sad. Like by offering that tissue they were granting me permission to cry, or in my case, blow a bunch of snot into it.

That experience made me realize three things.  First of all, even though not everyone can completely understand what we as parents go through, most people are doing their best to treat us with kindness. It might not come naturally to a highly intelligent brain specialist to be sympathetic and understanding, but he’s still doing the best he can to fill that counselor role. Secondly, I’d rather have a cold, impersonal doctor who is the most medically qualified caring for Gage than a less qualified one who is good at coddling me. And finally, I realize that if we will just take the time to look for it, comfort and kindness can be found in so many different sources – even a box of cheap tissues.

“Though he brings grief, he also shows compassion because of the greatness of his unfailing love.” Lamentations 3:32