The importance of what you say

My son’s check-up at the pediatrician last week started the same as it usually does.

Dr. M. measured and weighed Brett, listened to his chest, checked his eyes and looked in his throat.

Thankfully, all was well.

“You have a great kid,” he said. It’s the next part I hadn’t planned on. “And now you need to go to the lab for blood work.”

Blood work? Really? I should have known it was coming, but somehow, I hadn’t prepared myself – or Brett – for this. And I had barely a minute to get my act together.

On the way to the lab, I explained things to Brett, trying my best to downplay the notion that (yikes!) a steel needle was about to plunge into his arm and extract his blood.

“Dr. M. checked out all your outside parts, and now another doctor is going to check out your inside. It’s going to be really cool. We’ll watch them take your blood and then they’ll analyze it to see what’s in it. There will be a pinch and then we’ll just watch your red blood go into the tube.”

In the packed waiting room, a more apprehensive bunch of patients listened in, enamored with Brett’s series of questions:

“Mommy, what are they going to look for in my blood?”

“They are looking at your red blood cells, white blood cells, platelets,” I said.

“Why are we still waiting? Why are all the other people waiting? Is the doctor going to look inside their blood?”

When they called his name, Brett jumped up and in we went. He sat on my lap and the phlebotomist told me to hold his arm back, presumably to lessen the risk of him yanking the needle out.

I braced myself.

The needle went in. And even though it took a few more excruciating seconds than I expected, my son sat quietly.

Amazingly, he didn’t cry, he didn’t flinch.

At one point he did announce “I’m all done,” but even when told they had to do it just one more time, he sat calmly and watched. When it was over, Brett was beaming with pride as he exited with multiple Spiderman stickers.

I was in awe. I was proud of my brave little boy – and also, I was proud of myself.

Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely surprised. This is a child who, somehow, likes getting a flu shot. He loves pretend doctor kits and giving my husband “an

allergy shot” when he sneezes. (A physician in the making perhaps? He already looks the part in this photo.)

But even more striking for me is the way this experience illustrates the importance of not only what you say, but how you say it.

The more carefully a medical professional explains to a patient the details of a procedure or treatment, the more likely the patient will walk in with a sense of ease. Clear expectations have the power to ground a person in even the toughest of moments.

Sure, Brett’s just three years old, but the lesson still applies.

And years from now when Brett is the one in the white coat, I can see him comforting a patient and then saying with a smile: “You’re all done!”