Our lovely paediatric occupational therapist has taught us there are really seven senses (instant test, dear reader. What are they?*). However, I reckon I could add another.
Cue spooky music … the eighth sense. Dun, dun duuuuunn…
Okay, so in Dancing Wombat’s case, it’s not really ESP, or some gift of prophecy or being able to read people’s auras. What she does have is that uncanny ability to really sense how a person feels about her, on a very hidden level. And to respond accordingly.
This was brought home to me recently, when she went to have her quarterly blood test.
As well as everything else Dancing Wombat has to manage, her adrenal gland decided to stop functioning a few years ago, so she’s on lifelong hormone replacement tablets. To ensure the dosage is correct, she needs to get certain levels of multi-syllabic hormones and other things tested regularly.
Yes, I know – no one particularly likes blood tests. But throw in ASD, with a big dollop of sensory challenges, and voila – what should be a five minute test can become a fifteen minute (or longer) ordeal for all concerned.
On the bright side, there’s a pathology centre only five minutes walk down the road. That is super convenient. I’ve met most of the nurses there now, male and female. Yet among them all, there’s only one who has always been relaxed around Dancing Wombat. The lovely Leanne.
Leanne isn’t bothered that by Dancing Wombat’s idiosyncrasies. She doesn’t mind that my daughter is compelled to watch the needle being inserted and the blood withdrawn. Leanne accepts that Dancing Wombat’s sleeve has to be completely off the cushion that’s put underneath her arm. Not touching even one teensy little bit. She’s patient while Dancing Wombat tries to pump her fist to help expose the veins. And she’s firm, but not tight, with the tourniquet.
Consequently, my daughter has also been relaxed (relatively!) around her, and my stress levels are considerably lower when I see that Leanne is on duty. Dancing Wombat sits more quietly and fusses less. I don’t need to hold her – I can just stand by her, stroking her other arm while the test is done. We don’t need extra help.
Leanne is always warm and gentle in her approach. She’s quiet and calm, has a smile in her voice – even though she knows that this test will take longer. Not so the other nurses in the centre.
They’re always polite, but you can see the uncertain flicker in their eyes as they realise, after our number is called, that my daughter has special needs. As she sits and fidgets, they try to be patient, but you can hear the underlying anxiety in their voices, see them fluster as they go to find someone else to help them, lacking confidence in my assistance.
Dancing Wombat picks up on this. I’m looking and listening – I can see and hear the signs. Perhaps she does too, but I’m convinced that she senses it more deeply.
And wouldn’t you know – their anxiety and nervousness is transmitted to her, making her even more anxious and less co-operative in an already challenging situation. I’m sure we’ve all experienced this a zillion times. You pick up on the emotions of those around you. Negative vibes bring you down – positive vibes lift you up. It’s not rocket science.
This blood test is time-critical. It has to be done between 8 and 10 am. So we arrived on a Saturday at 9.30. I checked whether my daughter needed the toilet. No. Good. No-one else was waiting. We had barely sat down when our number was called. Brilliant! But wait… Damn – Dancing Wombat needed the toilet again. Nervousness, I’m sure. This happens almost every time. That was why I checked when we came in. I’ve learned from experience.
The minutes ticked by. Someone else came and took our place. Dancing Wombat emerged from the toilet and we waited. Quarter to. Ten to. Phew – finally, we were called through. The nurse (one we’d seen before, but not Leanne) and glanced at my daughter. The worry lines appeared. We sat down in the room, while she disappeared to fetch an assistant. Seconds passed. She reappeared and went through the paperwork. At least the doctor’s writing was legible this time. Now, could we please get started?
The nurse looked at me. “You know this test has to be done before 10.00?”
“Yes.” Thinking, So, can we just get on with it please? There are only seven minutes left.
She called her assistant. “Can you please phone the lab to see if we can do this test on Saturday?” Far out! Seriously? There’s nothing on the slip to say it has to be done during the week.
More precious seconds slipped by.
Then turning to me, “You should have made an appointment.”
Grrr. I’ve been doing this for nearly four years now and this is the first time I’ve been told that I should have made an appointment.
I said as much.
“Yes, well, it’s just because she has special needs and we need two people for that and it’s Saturday so we only have two people on and…”
Me thinking: if you weren’t so het up about it, my daughter would be more relaxed, and you’d manage with me helping – like Leanne does!
My inner volcano began smoking as more precious seconds slipped by.
Dancing Wombat scratched her nose and shuffled in her seat. I rolled up her sleeve, then stood by to hold her other arm. The nurse ordered her assistant to do this that way, and do that this way. I had my own marching orders and was growled at when I moved Dancing Wombat’s sleeve off the edge of the pad.
“Don’t look,” said the nurse and the needle hovered over my daughter’s arm, at about 9.59 and 55 seconds.
“She likes to look,” I told the nurse. “It helps.”
She sniffed. “All right.”
Gradually, four vials were filled. “I don’t know if this will be accepted for testing,” she told me. I didn’t answer. I was busy working out how to phone ahead and make sure we had Leanne to do every other blood test in the near future! And hoping that we wouldn’t need to go back for another test in a few days’ time.
As parents and carers, we’re all super-aware of the extra challenges that our children can present to health professionals, whether it’s non-invasive eye-testing, more invasive procedures like blood tests or confronting procedures like anaesthesia. However, I’ve found that the caring approach will always win over the clinical approach. The more that people can see our children as the people they are, and not just as a bunch of difficulties to be negotiated, the more our children will employ that eighth sense to react positively.
Until next time, Happy Wombatting!
* The seven senses are sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing, plus proprioception and vestibular. Did you get them all? 🙂
